


Close Encounters

by bleedcolor, Likelightinglass



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Anonymous Sex, Awkward Romance, Bottom Severus Snape, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Pining, Praise Kink, Sex in the Dark, Soul Bond, Tim Curry is a terrible matchmaker, Unusual Dating Service
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 13:14:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 35,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20657834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleedcolor/pseuds/bleedcolor, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Likelightinglass/pseuds/Likelightinglass
Summary: Years after the war, Harry Potter and Severus Snape meet and fall in lust, then love.Too bad they don’t know who they’ve fallen for.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zeitghost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeitghost/gifts).

_"Breaking Up Is Hard to Do"  
Hal Sirowitz_

_"We don't have anything in common,"_  
_I said. "We're two completely different people._  
_It doesn't make sense to stay together."_  
_But then she started to rub my penis_  
_through my pants, & I suddenly remembered_  
_that we both did like Indian food.  
_

_ _ __ _ _

_ _ _ _

_ _ __ _ _

The building stood tall among the faded shop fronts off of Diagon Alley and Harry wondered again how he never noticed it before. It was not so very tall as the crowded skyscrapers of London, but it stood at least a floor higher than the next tallest building and it’s dark, gleaming glass front looked strangely modern and muggle, compared to the stooped shops that it was sandwiched between. Whatever answer he had expected, when he had asked his friends about the curling script that read simply “Encounters,” apparently etched into the door, it was not Ron’s flush and strained clearing of his throat, nor Hermione’s unconcerned, “dating service meets bordello.” 

He’d heard of the idea, of course, mentioned here and there in the course of his checkered dating history. One didn’t put themselves in the dating pool of the wizarding world without at least hearing whispers of this sort of thing, especially not as many matchmaking services and blind dates as Harry had suffered through. But while girlfriends and boyfriends alike had mentioned them as though they were commonplace, Harry had never seen so much as a hint of how to apply for these services, much less seen an actual shop. Yet here it was, plain as the nose on his face. He half wondered if there had been some spell, preventing him from seeing the place until now. 

Maybe he simply hadn’t been desperate enough. Merlin knew he still wasn’t sure, standing here on the doorstep nearly two weeks after first sighting that bloody sign and its curving letters: Encounters. What kind of a name was that, anyway? Now that he was standing right in front of the door, however, he saw the smaller words lined up neatly underneath: “Companionship for the discerning and discreet witch or wizard.” That certainly suited him, though something about it still didn’t sit right. If he couldn’t manage a relationship with another person face to face, how was this meant to help? 

And, yet, when he thought of his last fiasco of an attempt at dating--the Prophet had gotten all the juicy details, practically printing outright the dimensions of some very intimate areas, and it was no secret how _that_ had happened--he supposed it couldn’t very well get any _worse_. Besides, that had been nearly six months ago and his libido had had quite enough of the enforced celibacy, thank you very much. He pulled open the door.

Again, whatever Harry had been expecting, this small room flooded with streaming, late afternoon light wasn’t it. The result of all those windows on the front of the building, though it was a strange effect, when this endeavor was intended to end in pure darkness. There was no shopkeep or even attendant to greet him, merely a small table in the center of the room holding a stack of parchment and a small sign beside it saying, “Take one.” Harry glanced around the room uncertainly, certain there should be more, that he was somehow missing something, but when nothing in particular jumped out at him he stepped forward and obediently lifted the top piece of blank parchment from the stack.

At his touch words burst into being across the page, ink streaming into lines and letters quick as a blink, Harry having barely enough time to recognize his name, age, and a handful of other alarmingly personal details, written in what looked very much like his own handwriting, before the parchment folded itself out of existence with a flash of light--uncomfortably warming his fingers in the process--and a door creaked into existence on the far wall. Very briefly Harry wondered what in the bloody hell he had gotten himself into and then a voice spoke from beyond the door.

“This way, Mr. Potter, whenever you care to join me.” The voice was expectant, as Harry if weren’t considering turning and running as far and as fast as his legs would carry him.

“Right, then,” he muttered to himself, gathering every bit of Gryffindor courage he had. “Here goes nothing.” He stepped through the door.

The room Harry stepped into held a large, imposing desk and a nondescript, unimposing wizard sitting comfortably behind it. He looked familiar in that way some people do, a niggling sense of “where have I seen them before,” until he gave a crooked smile and Harry’s mind produced the inane image of a butler from some mystery movie Dudley had watched over and over again on the telly when they were children. 

“Welcome, Mr. Potter.” The wizard gave a small wave of his wand and a comfortable chair appeared opposite the desk. “Please, sit.”

Harry sat. The wizard granted him another smile, the expression rather knowing, and then turned to the parchment that Harry hadn’t noticed sitting in front of him on the desk. He craned his neck just enough to see that it was apparently filled in with his own handwriting and then sank back in the chair as the other wizard tapped the edge of it with his wand and hummed thoughtfully at the colors that the action sent dancing over the page.

“Well then. If you would be kind enough to sign our non-disclosure agreement, Mr. Potter, we can arrange your first match.” One more wave of his wand and ink, quill, and a very thorough looking legal document came into being in front of Harry.

Harry blinked. “Is that...is that it? Just sign and then…” He felt his face heat as he thought of what was supposed to follow now, confused by the ease of this process. He’d gone through a speed-dating service with a lengthier and more rigorous matching process. The man behind the desk smiled.

“We at Encounters pride ourselves on ease and expedience of service. Once you sign the non-disclosure agreement we will have a quick discussion about terms of service and we will arrange a meeting time for you and your Encounter partner.”

“It just seems a little _too_ simple. Shouldn’t I answer a question or two?”

“Our unique matching process was completed once you took a piece of parchment in the waiting area. Your needs and desires, your magical signature, as well as several other points of relevant information, were imprinted to the page once you took hold, which will allow our spellcasters to find you a partner or partners of the utmost compatibility. All that’s necessary now is your agreement not to divulge either the process Encounters utilizes for our matchmaking services, nor any private information you may inadvertently uncover about your partners-- we are as discreet and careful as humanly possible, but some things, particularly in repeat meetings, are inevitable. Your signature, please, and then we may discuss the particulars.”

Harry lifted the quill in front of him and carefully scanned the apparent non-disclosure agreement. He had learned enough legal jargon from Hermione to at least be able to parse which things were safe enough to sign. The wizard across from him waited patiently as Harry ascertained that this contract looked safe enough, with the standard wording on privacy violations and the repercussions and measures that would be taken if he broke his word. He dipped the quill into the inkwell and scrawled his name across the bottom of the parchment. With a snap it rolled itself up and zoomed across the desk, into the wizard’s waiting hand.

“Thank you, Mr. Potter. Now, shall we speak of more pleasant things?” He opened one of the desk drawers and pulled out a short, black length of cord with a small silver charm dangling from it. 

“This charm will inform you when a match has been made for you and shortly thereafter you will receive an owl to select meeting times. Once you and your match agree on a time, you will meet here for use of our dark room. Short survey forms will be owled to you within two business days after an encounter at which time you may indicate whether or not you would like to meet with the same partner again. Both partners must agree or they will not meet another time. Payment will be made for the initial processing fee and then a flat rate for any encounters that you make with a match.”

Harry nodded, absorbing the information as he examined the small charm. It felt smooth and oddly heavy. The wizard paused and he glanced up. “The dark room?” 

“A comfortably furnished room magically made completely dark. You will be unable to see your partner, and your partner will be unable to see you. Complete anonymity,” the wizard said with obvious pride. “The dark room where you meet your partner will be yours for as long as you would like, but extra charges will apply after a period of three hours. All acts inside the dark room must be strictly consensual. If at any time they become non-consensual an attendant will be alerted, you and your partner will be removed from the room and the aggressor of the non-consensual acts will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. You or your partner may choose to leave the dark room at any time for any reason.”

Harry nodded again, indicating he understood, and the sales pitch continued smoothly. 

“If you agree to these terms you will provide your initial processing payment of 25 Galleons and then 5 Galleons in advance per dark room encounter. If you exceed this time frame you will be charged for an additional three hours, to be collected by Encounters immediately after your use of the darkroom.” He opened a different desk drawer and pulled out another parchment, passing it over the top of the desk along with the charm. “Do we have an agreement, Mr Potter?”

Harry picked up the quill.

~~~~~~~~~

Although Harry tried to keep his mind off the inconspicuous galleon sized disk in his pocket for the next two days, he was disappointed to say he was entirely unsuccessful. He kept unconsciously reaching into his pocket (and to his nightstand, where he left it overnight), holding it in his hand or turning it over between his fingers. The proprietor of Encounters, that strange wizard, had informed him it would glow blue and warm when a match was made, and an owl with meeting details would follow shortly after.

Even though he’d been burned many times before in trying to find someone to call his own, he couldn’t help the flutter of excitement at this prospect, odd as it was. Maybe this would be the best way for him to find someone, with complete anonymity. No one would see him first and foremost as the boy who lived-he could finally be “just Harry” again. (First, however, he had to convince a stranger that “just Harry” was worth meeting outside of anonymous trysts in the dark.)

He hadn’t told Ron or Hermione yet about signing up with Encounters. They’d probably guessed his interest when he first sighted the shop in London, but for now he wanted to keep it just for him. He would tell them once there was something worth telling, he decided. And he couldn’t stop hoping (blame that Gryffindor optimism) that maybe there would be something worth telling soon.

He was so absorbed in his thoughts he almost didn’t notice when the silver charm began to do exactly what he was waiting for it to do-warm up significantly and pulse a faint glowing blue-not unlike the color of the patronus charm. 

A match! Harry nearly knocked his chair over standing up in excitement. Why he assumed the owl would appear within half a second he wasn’t sure, but he was too happy to care. He stood awkwardly for another few moments, then sat back down. Then stood up again and paced the room. Sat at the table. Then he remembered if he was expecting an owl, he should open a window. He opened one window, then sat back down, then stood up again to open a window on the other side of the cottage, just in case. He clutched the charm, still pleasantly warm and flushed a bit at the thought he was acting like a nervous teenager the day of his first date. What had gotten into him?

Several minutes of ups, downs, and pacing were mercifully interrupted by the arrival of a large brown owl, who flew in and landed, graceful and dignified, on the table. Harry reached excitedly for the letter but the owl pulled back, affronted, until Harry offered him a piece of bacon from his forgotten breakfast. The owl seemed satisfied and stuck out his leg. Harry grabbed the letter with the fervor of opening a present on Christmas morning. Merlin, he really ought to lower his expectations for this, or he was going to end up sorely disappointed. 

_Congratulations! You have been matched for your first encounter!_ Read the neat script of the very first line.

Harry skimmed over the rest of the letter before really reading it. Much of what the proprietor had already told him was in there, rules and regulations for behavior within the darkroom, a reminder about the 3 hour time limit and the fee for exceeding it, the spells he would need to cast on himself before arriving at Encounters--for their privacy and safety--, and at the bottom a brief overview of what he might expect during the experience. His gaze was drawn to the sparse information listed about his matched partner--no obvious identifying information, just a number designation, his partner’s gender and the indication that Harry was the younger of the pairing. He hadn’t dated many older wizards, but he had no issues with keeping an open mind. 

The very last paragraph of the letter suggested that their match was one of high compatibility and listed a few of the discriminating factors that Encounters spellwork considered, such as loyalty, integrity, strength of character, and similar personal histories. He was encouraged by the words towards the end, assuring him that _“this match has been chosen for you with careful and deliberate Encounters matching spellwork with the expectation you should each fulfill the others needs and desires.”_ Considering the incredibly personal questions about wants and desires he’d filled out for other dating agencies, he was curious what sort of information the Encounters questionnaire used, with its magical approach to research, and very interested to meet the person he’d been paired with.

Harry selected one of the three meeting times already approved by his match, and sent back the owl with his signature confirming he’d read and understood the letter and spellwork instructions, and that he would “conduct himself with discretion and in a dignified manner throughout the experience.” Tomorrow, early afternoon. He tried to tell himself that he hadn’t just chosen because it was the earliest time, but oh, who was he kidding?

He attempted--_again_\--to lower his expectations, calm down, and think of this as just another blind date. Tomorrow, he thought smiling to himself. I’ll not think about it again until tomorrow.

~~~~~~~~~

When he Apparated into the Encounters waiting room the proprietor stood waiting for him with a bland smile. He wondered if all customers received this sort of preferential treatment or if his status as “The Boy Who Lived” was to blame. It hadn’t been mentioned, at least, and he was hardly being fawned over, so Harry supposed he couldn’t really complain. What he might complain about, however, was how the strange wizard had stepped forward with a tsking sound under his breath and he’d brandished his wand at Harry, flicking it purposefully and repeating the charms Harry had performed before leaving his home. Somehow he still didn’t know this peculiar little man’s _name_, but he was now familiar with the itchy tingle of his magic washing over him.

“A little practice might not go amiss, Mr. Potter. These charms are rather delicate work, all for the benefit of your safety and comfort--and, more importantly, that of your partner.”

“Right.” Harry mumbled and flushed at the chastisement, feeling it sharply for the mildness of the tone, but allowed himself to be led to a door that he knew hadn’t been present for his first visit here.

“Through this door, if you please. Change from your clothing into the robe provided and as soon as you and your partner are ready the darkroom will be made available to you.”

The proprietor allowed him to step into the small room, dimly lit with only a small stand holding what looked like a rather soft robe to decorate it, and closed the door behind him. Harry took a deep, slow breath to calm the fluttering of his nerves and began to carefully strip out of his clothing. The only door in the room was the one he had entered through and there wasn’t much space. Harry hoped that none of the customers here were claustrophobic, but if they were perhaps the quality of the robes provided would distract them--it was the softest thing Harry had ever felt against his naked skin.

As he tied the robe closed, he tried for one final time to lower his expectations. After all, as much as he wanted to find a connection, a lasting relationship, at the very least today should end in two adults quite sexually satisfied and it had been what seemed like ages for Harry. Suddenly, the lights were doused in the small alcove he’d been sequestered in, and he felt a whoosh of air as a door opened in front of him. The ball of heat that the proprietor’s locator spell had left fluttering against his chest urged him forward.

Harry stepped out into what he could only assume was the bedroom that had been shown to him on his very first visit. Now, of course, the room was blanketed in an absence of light that rivaled the blackness of Peruvian Instant Darkness powder. There should also be someone else here, who had been sequestered in their own adjoining alcove, but Harry could sense no trace of them, could hear no sound other than his unsteady breathing and the rhythm of his heartbeat in his ears, could make out no smells, and certainly no vision beyond the vast dark in front of his squinting eyes. The idle part of his brain pointed out that he might as well have left his glasses with the rest of his clothing. The rest of his mind had more important things to consider.

How was he supposed to know if the other person was there? Or where they were? _Well you could talk, dummy_, thought Harry. 

“Err...hello?” Oh very clever, Harry's mind provided scathingly. I’m sure I’m blowing them away already. A heavy sigh escaped into the darkness and Harry started, fruitlessly turning to try and locate its source in the darkness, though the warm pulse of the lodestone spell gives him a general direction to turn toward. “Hello? Are you...there?”

“I don’t know where else you would expect me to be, we did both agree to being here.” The other man’s voice was heavy and full of gravel and a shiver traveled down Harry’s spine to hear it. He sounds...weary, thought Harry, after a moment of searching for the right word, and older I expected. It wasn’t off-putting. Rather the opposite, in fact, it was strangely heady to think he would get to carefully take this man--who sounded as world-wise as anyone Harry had met outside of this building-- apart and then quietly, delicately, put him back together. Still, he couldn’t let the man think he wasn’t up to the challenge.

“Well, pardon me for being a bit nervous,” said Harry.

“What, is this your first time?” asked the voice, with an edge of mocking sarcasm.

“Oh, no,” Harry said. “I’ve been nervous plenty of times before.”

There was a strange sound, which Harry supposed might be stifled laughter, a short almost croak that did not repeat. He thought, perhaps, this mystery man didn’t laugh often enough. He could fix that.

“I see you’ve brought along your sense of humor, such that it is.”

“Well, it comes along with my cock, I’m afraid.”

“So I suppose I’ll have to endure the first if I want the other, then?”

“That all depends on what you want from me, I imagine.”

A heavy sigh. In the silence Harry could practically feel the man rubbing his brow as if to ward off a headache. “I had thought I made it clear in the forms that I did not want a novice, but it seems I am doomed to disappointment.” 

There was a rustle of cloth and then, suddenly, long fingers winding themselves in Harry’s hair, tugging him firmly forward. Warm lips collided with his and ended in an awkward bump of noses that resolved itself in less than a moment. This man was certainly no novice, from the way he seemed to be trying to devour Harry with a single-mindedness that spoke of hurried past encounters, of moments in the dark that were brusque and business-like, begun and ended without a moment of true intimacy.

Harry pushed the man away and tried to catch his breath. In a different moment he might have allowed this man to consume him, might have shown him that there was more to being in control than being dominant, but here, now, he had come for a different reason. 

“No, wait-- wait,” He took another deep breath, the kiss had been good, for all that it had lacked true passion, and reached up, wrapping his hand around the wrist of the fingers still caught in his hair--its messiness was good for something, it seemed-- as they tried to escape. He squeezed gently then followed the wrist up to an arm, the arm to a shoulder, to a throat with ridges of scar-tissue and lingered there for a moment before continuing to a jawline that held the slightest hint of stubble and stroked gently there. “What should I call you? ”

“Call me?” For the first time that gravelly voice sounded less than completely confident, sounds nearly bewildered. “Whyever would you need to call me anything?”

Harry smiled, leaned forward into the guide of his hand and nuzzled the warm skin of his throat, tilted his mouth to the cuff of an ear. Yes, he could fix this. “You can call me H, so you have something to cry out while I’m fucking you,” he purred, nipping lightly at the shell of cartiledge. “I’m good, but having you call me ‘Merlin’ might be a bit much. And I need something to call you, so that you know when I’m telling you how very good you feel beneath me.”

“Hmph. That sure of yourself, are you?” The voice held an edge of annoyance now and, buried beneath the irritation, just a hint of interest, though the body in his arms holds itself stiff against him, giving no indication of any kind that Harry’s mouth working against his ear is affecting him.

Harry gave a surprised huff of laughter, though something told him he shouldn’t be surprised at all, considering. “Not hardly. I’m sure you’re going to make me work for every single thing. Luckily for both of us, I’m not a bit afraid of hard work.” Instinctively, he shifted up and pressed a soft kiss to a warm cheekbone. “If you wouldn’t mind joining me on the bed, I’ll prove it to you.” He tried to sound warm, enticing, though he hadn’t yet found his feet with this man, wasn’t certain of his usual playbook--though it was admittedly not as wide and varied as he had implied--, and didn’t know whether or not the other man would unbend enough to take that first step.

The voice sounded thoughtful, measured, when his answer finally came. “Very well.”

The lodestone spell led them to the bed much the same as it led them together to begin with; their steps surprisingly sure as they moved together, and Harry gently guided his partner to sit on the mattress, stepping carefully between his legs when they were settled. He leaned down and began exploring, first with gentle fingertips, then following them with light kisses against an upturned face. It’s not something he would normally do in a more casual sexual encounter, but it felt right somehow, the trails of his lips replacing his sight with the soft blemishes of skin and curious prickling arch of an eyebrow. The quiet sounds of their breathing suddenly seemed even louder in the darkness of the room. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist on _something_ to call you or this is going to become far too awkward for me.”

The silence stretched between them, Harry waiting with his hands perched lightly on the cups of rounded shoulders and his lips and nose nudging a silky hairline. He was afraid, after a long moment passed in stillness, that he’d crossed some line unknowingly, that the man would push him away and leave.

“Russ,” the voice came again at last, rather grudgingly it sounded like. Harry smiled, pleased by the victory, small as it was. “Although I won’t be calling you H. What an asinine pseudonym, I might as well call you Merlin. The only thing more ridiculous would have been suggesting to call you Harry Potter.”

Harry felt his breath catch at the idea that he could hear this man’s voice growling out his own name in pleasure, but he chastised himself to stay calm--it wouldn’t do to appear to eager, after all, and give something away. He licked his lips and forced himself to speak with a light amusement he didn’t truly feel. “You could call me Harry, if you’d like.”

“Merlin, _no_,” the voice held a surprising amount of scorn at the suggestion and Harry wondered if he should be offended or relieved that his partner so disliked the idea of calling him Harry Potter. He gave a soft huff of laughter and resolved to consider it later, when there were less pressing matters at hand. He cast about for another suitable name.

“Leo, then, I think.”

“A Gryffindor. I should have known.” Now the voice held a mixture of emotion, something like amusement and perhaps something like wariness. Harry could hardly parse it and wished, for what he was sure would be the first time of many, that he could see the man--_Russ_' face. Maybe he’d been burned by a Gryffindor before. Harry would be the first to admit that emotional consideration was hardly a trait his house was known for. That didn’t mean all of them were careless with the things that had been entrusted to them, however.

“You think so? I might have been a Slytherin.” Which was true enough, though he certainly wasn’t going to say any more about that. Still, considering the way this conversation was going, he doubted his partner would believe him if he did. 

“Not hardly.” The voice was filled with smug certainty, as if Harry had given away some vital clue about himself.

“Clever boy,” Harry teased. “I suppose that makes you a Ravenclaw?”

“Did you really come here planning to discuss school houses? I must say I’d hoped for more interesting activities.” He moved forward to capture Harry’s lips in another kiss, more insistent this time and Harry groaned his pleasure into that warm mouth, pressing them gently down onto the mattress. 

Greedily, Harry slid his hands down firm sides encased in soft, silky robe fabric, tugging open its belt once they found it and pressing his advantage when Russ’ robe had gaped open, sliding his fingertips over the warm bared flesh. His pride thrilled when his fingers found a pebbled nipple and Russ broke their kiss with a gasping sound of surprise, gratified by the other man’s responsiveness.

If there was one thing that Harry knew for sure he enjoyed, it was coaxing little gasps and moans of pleasure out of his partners. He very much enjoyed spending a while on foreplay, and was immediately encouraged by the man’s reactions. He trailed kisses down Russ’ jaw and neck, interspersed with teasing licks and gentle nips, while his fingertips continued stroking the soft skin of his chest, stopping occasionally to circle a nipple.

He pushed the robe further open and slid it off of Russ’ shoulders, casually tossing it over the edge of the bed, and repositioned them so they were lying properly on top of the mattress, with Harry over his partner, trying to take in as much as possible with only lips and tongue and fingertips. It was a surreal experience, not being able to see his lover, and he regretted that he couldn’t see the expression on the other man’s face.

“You’re going to have to make some more noise if you like what I’m doing,” said Harry between kisses. “You have me at a bit of a disadvantage since I can't see if you’re smiling or scowling at me.”

“I’ll be sure to let you know if you fail to meet my standards.” Harry could tell his partner was going for breezy and uninterested, but was pleased to note a hint of breathlessness.

“I have no doubt you will,” he murmured absently, mind already turning and considering how to turn that hint into outright gasps, how to loosen his partner’s tight grasp on his control. Luckily he had more than a few ideas.

He leaned in again, his mouth going to Russ’ throat, tongue exploring the ridges of scar tissue that he’d discovered before, more slowly this time, taking his time and leaving behind evidence of his explorations, though he could not see it, in pink and red, as he sampled and sucked at the flesh below his mouth. 

“What are you, part sucker fish? It’s not a requirement that we use the full three hours, you know.”

Harry pulled back, confused and a bit offended. “Oh, do you have somewhere to be?”

Russ just huffed. “What I mean is, surely all of this isn’t strictly necessary. We know what we both came here for.” 

Harry sat back abruptly, the words like a pail of ice water over his arousal. “Do we?”

“Of course. We’re both adults here, _Leo_. I am not in the habit of being coddled. You needn’t waste your time with seduction, certainly none of your predecessors have.”

“What’s wrong with seduction?” Harry was torn between being annoyed at the man’s harsh attitude and confused as to why he was bringing this up. He wasn’t getting the sense Russ hadn’t been enjoying his ministrations, more like...he hadn’t expected them at all. Hadn’t anyone ever taken their time with him before? The thought made him suddenly sad, and he intended to figure out exactly what his partner’s issue was. He was reminded of the initial letter’s assurance that they were exceptionally compatible. He knew how much he enjoyed (even needed) to take care of his partner--was it possible he’d been paired with someone who wanted or needed that in a lover? 

“There’s hardly any point, when you have no intention of meeting me again.” His partner’s words sounded almost defeated, as if this were a foregone conclusion. But the man had such a harsh and grumbling exterior, Harry could see why this would put off any other sensitive sort of match Russ had been with before. 

“Who says I haven’t any intention of meeting you again?” He made the question as calm and emotionless as he could, not quite ready to give away the whole extent of his interest, as quickly as it was growing.

“Why should you? No one else has.” The voice was almost petulant now and Harry couldn’t keep himself from smiling, suddenly grateful for the dark that hid the expression.

“No one else has been me. Besides, have you ever considered that they’re the ones who were wrong?” He took a chance and leaned in, trusting the locator spell to guide him to Russ’ lips and sliding a brief kiss against them when it did. “Let me show you what this _should_ be. You won’t regret it.”

Russ sighed, almost as if he were being inconvenienced by the request, although the sound held a sense of release to it, rather than impatience or annoyance. “If you insist.”

Harry gave in to the soft snort of amusement that bubbled up in him and pressed another firm kiss to his partner’s lips. “I do.”

Harry, confident in his abilities in this arena at least, slowly began his approach to his lover’s body again. Continuing steadily downwards in the manner he’d begun originally, he trailied fingertips and warm wet paths with his tongue over Russ’ chest, stopping to lap at a nipple or press a slight bite to the soft flesh of his belly, gauging his success by both the sounds his partner was making and the eager writhe and shift of the body beneath him. As Harry progressed, he began getting the sense his partner was continuing to hold back sounds of pleasure, which Harry took as a challenge, increasing suction and pressure in his motions until Russ huffed a groan in frustration. 

"If you wouldn't mind-," he said with irritation. 

"Oh, what's wrong?" Harry asked innocently.

“Bloody _tease_,” the voice beneath him ground out, and Harry grinned into the dark before lowering his mouth to a hip bone and nipping it gently in reprimand.

“Well, I shouldn’t want to overstep, since I can hardly tell if you’re enjoying yourself.”

"What would you have me do, beg for it?"

Harry shivered, the heat of arousal pulsing through him at the idea of that gravelly voice lost in pleasure, _begging_ him, though he knows it’s too soon to expect such a thing. “Let me hear you,” he said after a moment, a hint of gravel and more than a hint of lust in his own voice. “Your voice is amazing, you know, and it doesn’t hurt to give me an idea that you’re enjoying yourself.”

“If you don’t get your hand or mouth on my cock the only thing _you’ll_ be enjoying is your own hand.”

Harry smirked and, deciding he had made his point, briefly complied, shifting down just so and nuzzling the attentive erection that he’d been ignoring. He drew his tongue down the length of it and suckled gently around the base, gratified at the sounds that escaped his lover as a result--though he intended to make them louder still--before venturing lower, mouth sliding over heavy testicles, carefully nudging them aside and whispering a spell that had taken him very little effort to master wandlessly, as he’d had rather a lot of motivation.

When he parted the globes of Russ’ arse with a sure touch and dragged his tongue confidently over the ring of muscle he’d uncovered, the hoarse, wordless exclamation that left his partner was exactly the gratification he'd been hoping for, although he anticipated even greater pleasure for the both of them in the very near future. Teasingly, he dragged the flat of his tongue over Russ’ entrance again, wringing a whimper from the other man before he worked his tongue inside, first with gentle, exploring twists and then shifting into firm, plunging strokes; Harry learned the taste of his lover, the sounds of his pleasure as they shifted from insensate cries into babbled pleas for more.

Russ was panting for breath by the time Harry finally pulled his mouth away and pressed a sloppy kiss to the inner thigh that had squeezed close to his ears as he’d work to drive his lover’s pleasure higher. 

“See there? I knew how good you would be, once you stopped holding back. Such a very good boy,” Harry crooned softly, the endearment falling from his lips almost without thought. “Now let’s see about rewarding you, shall we?”

A soft sound, something like a strangled sob, escaped Russ and Harry shifted, leaning up once more to trail kisses over what flesh he could reach, making his way back up his lover’s body, not wanting the other man to feel as if Harry was pulling away from him when what they both wanted was more closeness. He fumbled for a moment, not wanting to relinquish the feel of Russ’ body pressed close to his, but needing his wand and to rid himself of his robe, until warm hands reached upwards and helped him, pushing the fabric from his shoulders and down his back. 

Another spell, this time accompanied by a careful wand movement, and Harry could feel his lover’s body shudder beneath him as the magic went to work. His wand was tossed aside with a rather careless clatter, eager to cause some shuddering of his own, his fingers traveling unerringly to the place his mouth had been only moments ago, dipping carefully inward, one at a time to gauge how much preparation his partner still needed. The tight space of Russ’ body welcomed each digit easily and Harry had to suppress a shudder of his own.

“Already so ready for me, Russ,” he murmured, sliding his fingers out slowly and then thrusting them inwards much more quickly, pleased at the soft wail that escaped his partner.

“Yes, _please_, I want it,” the other man’s voice was more growl than words now, but he had enough control left to squeeze pointedly around the stretch of Harry’s fingers. _“In me.”_

“All right, sweetheart. All right.” Harry couldn’t pretend that he didn’t want to be buried in his lover’s body just as much as Russ wanted him there and he gently pulled his fingers free once more and wrapped them around his heavy erection, spreading the spelled lubricant from Russ’ body onto the heated flesh. He guided himself forward, the head of his cock nudging the entrance to his lover’s body impatiently, even as he stroked a gentle hand down Russ’ side, one last moment of calm before the storm overtook them both. 

Harry pushed slowly inward, gritting his teeth as the heat of the body beneath him devoured all of his thoughts but one. “Russ, fuck,” he gasped roughly as seated himself fully against the other man. 

“That’s the idea,” the voice beneath him hissed out, just before rocking down against Harry and whiting out his thoughts for a breathless moment. When he became aware of himself again, his hands were gripped tightly around Russ’ hips, holding him still.

“Cheeky bugger,” Harry muttered, thinking perhaps he’d given his lover slightly too much time to recover his senses. “I’ll stop teasing us both, then.”

“Yessss,” that addicting voice hissed out once more, the closest thing Harry had heard to parseltongue in years, as he shifted his hips in a short, testing thrust. Well, he certainly couldn’t find it in him to deny such an appealing request, he thought, and began to move in earnest, thoughtfully experimenting with angles and force until he found a combination that made his lover cry out and arch against him in pleasure.

Once they’d found their rhythm there wasn’t anything holding them back from taking the pleasure they wanted in each other, Russ rolling his hips back into each of Harry’s thrusts and then jerking sharply forward into the friction of their stomachs trapping his cock between them. Harry took pity on his lover after several thrusts, wrapped the leaking erection into the palm of his hand and gave it one firm tug, then another, shuddering hard at the orgasm that then shook its way through his lover’s body and the way Russ spasmed and clenched around him, managing one thrust, then two, before following his partner into the abyss of climax.

Both panting, Harry withdrew and rolled over so he was lying next to Russ, who from the sound of it was also barely able to catch his breath. They lay in silence for a few moments while recovering, until Harry broke it with a happy laugh. "Well then. How was that?"

"That was…" Russ seemed to be searching for words. Harry hoped he'd enjoyed himself as much as he had. "Adequate, I suppose."

_“Adequate?!”_ Well, Harry knew a challenge when he heard one. He quickly cast a freshening charm over them both, ridding them of the sweat pooling on their bodies, so he could comfortably pull Russ closer. "I suppose you'll have me work even harder next time."

“What makes you think there will be a next time?” The words sound strangely distant, considering the man speaking them is practically spooned against him, almost practiced. That doesn’t stop them from stinging.

“Oh.” He doesn’t want this to be their last meeting, finds this strange man of contradictions endlessly intriguing, and the sex had surpassed all of his expectations. Still, he couldn’t rush blindly into things here. He needed a plan. Perhaps he just needed to show Russ that he was worth taking a risk on. “Well, if that’s the case, I better make this time worth my while, try to get my fill of you--though it seems unlikely.” He reached out, sliding a curious hand down over a slightly sticky stomach, and lower still wrapping questioningly around a quiescent length of flesh.

“How young do you think I am?” Russ’ voice was a strange mixture of amusement and confusion, but he didn’t pull away, which was the important thing. Harry grinned.

“Don’t worry, I’m doing all the work this time, remember?”

~~~~~~~~~

Harry couldn’t help the self satisfied smirk on his face as he read the missive sent from Encounters. He had filled out a short survey asking him to rate the compatibility between himself and his partner (of which he put the highest mark possible) and the request for an additional meeting (affirmative) nearly immediately after it arrived. Russ must have delayed a bit in his response though, as it was nearly a week after the first meeting that Harry finally received a letter informing him that his partner had also requested an additional meeting, and asked him to select three convenient meeting times his partner could choose from and owl back as soon as possible. He fought the urge to select morning, afternoon, and evening of the very next day. Had to still appear a bit more casual, despite the absolutely amazing time he’d had the previous week.

So amazing in fact, that they had actually managed to exceed the three hour time limit, and were charged an additional fee for the time extension. Harry, of course, paid Russ’ fee as well, since “it’s hardly my fault you had to take so bloody long”, as he said. Harry smiled at the memory. Russ was definitely kind of a berk, but he was witty and interesting and made some excellent noises in bed, so Harry was eager to keep meeting with the man. 

He selected three times at random over the next few days, and sent back the owl.

~~~~~~~~~

Harry was a bit more comfortable when faced with the overwhelming blackness of the meeting room the second time around. And much more excited than he was nervous, given that he knew exactly what he was getting, and how much he was going to enjoy Russ’ company. Still, he couldn’t resist teasing him a bit.

“So, that good, was I? Couldn’t resist coming back?” The other man had traded witticisms with him easily their first encounter and this time was apparently no different.

“My my, so sure of yourself?” Russ drawled. “As it happens, my quill dripped over the affirmative, and the over eager owl snatched the letter away before I could correct it. I knew they would charge me some sort of exorbitant fee if I failed to show up and, so, here I am.” Though he could not see it, Harry could clearly imagine the exaggerated shrug Russ was likely making and smiled.

Something told him that it would be prudent to play along, not to press through what was, without a doubt, the flimsiest excuse he had ever heard. The reluctance didn’t sit quite right with him, but maybe Russ just wasn’t the type to let his eagerness show. “Of course,” Harry said finally, in a vague drawl of his own. “I’m certain that happens all the time.”

“You want to just go ahead and call it off, then?” Harry asked lightly, returning to the gentle teasing. “Wouldn’t want to inconvenience you any further.”

“I’ve already come all the way here,” Russ said gruffly. “Why don’t you try and make it worth my while, hmm?”

Harry strode confidently to where the locator spell guided him and pulled Russ into a heady kiss. “Gladly,” he whispered in his ear, and proceeded to devour him in much the same way as before. Harry was pleased to note that, while still making him work for every last bit, Russ was a bit more forthcoming with those lovely sounds. Harry could easily get addicted to the man’s voice; although it had a strangely strained and raspy quality to it, the authoritative tone and little huffs and moans he produced were nothing short of tantalizing. 

Russ had been all too happy to let Harry do most of the work during their first encounter, but now he appeared to be trying to give as good as he got, kissing back roughly and passionately. Did he think this was some sort of competition, Harry wondered idly--although he certainly couldn’t say he wasn’t enjoying the new enthusiasm. 

“You’re amazing,” he purred encouragingly when Russ found a particularly pleasurable rhythm on his cock, stroking him with one hand and lightly teasing a nipple with the other. “Good boy,” he said, that favored endearment slipping out once again. 

Since Russ’ throat was pressed against Harry’s skin, he felt more than heard the silght whimper that followed the gentle praising. Harry’s arousal ratched up considerably at the implication of that vibration. Well, well. Perhaps another thing they were highly sexually compatible in. 

“Do you like that?” Harry asked, voice a low growl. Russ stayed silent and immediately renewed the fervor of his touches, as if he were trying to distract Harry. Was he embarrassed? That just wouldn’t do. 

Harry reached down and pulled the other man up, so close their faces were almost touching, and he could feel the warm pants of Russ’ breath gust over his cheeks. He twined his fingers into Russ’ long hair, twisting it into a fist and dipping his face closer to better access Russ’ neck. Harry’s tongue darted out to lap the flesh behind his ear, and he repeated himself, voice filled with lust. “I said, do you like when I tell you what a good boy you are?”

Russ’ groan was more obvious this time, though still held back. Harry gave a firm tug to the hair curled around his fingers. “Answer me,” he said, nipping at the shell of his ear.

“Yes. Yes, I do,” he ground out, and Harry rewarded him with a deep kiss.

“That’s good,” Harry whispered, “because I like saying it.”

Harry continued the open-mouthed kisses down Russ’ jaw and neck, pausing at random to suck and lick at the flesh. Although this was only their second time together, Harry had always a quick study when it came to the physical, and the added motivation of how very prettily Russ responded to praise definitely didn’t hurt.

“So sexy, so hot, such a good boy.” A myriad of other phrases, some bordering on nonsense, continued to fall from Harry’s lips as he prepared his lover, a whispered spell and a single digit at a time. Each touch and whisper caused a different sound from his partner, sighs and moans and whimpers pouring from Russ’ mouth. 

“You feel amazing,” Harry groaned. “So good, so ready for me.” The words were hissed out as he finally thrust into the warm clutch of his lover’s body. Russ’ legs wrapped tightly around his waist as Harry sank into him, pulling at him to go harder, deeper. 

Russ was considerably more vocal this time around, as they shifted and rocked together. Time stretched and receded between them, pleasure a wave that was infinite and endless and entirely too short when Russ finally signaled his release with a throaty moan. Harry followed a moment later into his clenching body. They stayed clutching at each other, panting and sweaty and sated, until Russ moved away and summoned his wand, casting a cleaning charm over them both. 

Harry reached out and tried pulling him close again to hold him for a bit, but Russ resisted, staying still.

“Are you all right?” Harry asked softly, stroking a hand over Russ’ arm, not willing to give up at least that small bit of contact.

The other man was quiet on the other side of the bed. “Yes,” he said after hesitating. Then, perhaps because some things are easier said in the dark, he continued. “That wasn’t a...common experience. For me.”

Although he had only a very limited knowledge of the man, and could only gather information by tone of voice and what motions he could sense in the shift of the bedsheets, Harry guessed what the issue might be.

“You shouldn’t be embarrassed. Enjoying being praised like that,” Harry said gently. “I love hearing how much you enjoy it.” Harry tried again to pull him in with a slight tug, and after another brief hesitation, Russ let himself be guided down against him. Relief swamped Harry as he tugged the bedsheet up to cover them. They lay in a comfortable quiet for awhile, basking in closeness and afterglow. Harry began stroking the man’s hair, gently carding through tangles with an absentminded affection. 

The peace of the situation was interrupted with a groaning almost laugh from Russ.

“So, what’s wrong with you, then?”

“Sorry, what?” Harry asked, stilling his hand.

“What's wrong with you? I know why I'm carousing in the pitch dark with strange men--the list of my flaws is long and varied, but you...” Harry could feel him shake his head, as if totally bewildered by him. “I can find no reasonable explanation of why you're here.”

Harry blinked, digesting the rather backhanded compliment.

“Carousing? You have the strangest way with words, like you stepped out of a Dickens' novel or something.”

Russ huffed, annoyed. “I taught myself the art of proper speech. I had no desire to have a constant reminder of the rubbish town I grew up in or my working class father every time I opened my mouth.” 

Harry considered that. Now that he thought of it, he did detect a bit of roughness to his speech shining through in certain moments. Growing up in Surrey, his accent had never been a source of contention. About the only thing that wasn’t, honestly. “I suppose I didn't have to worry about that, though it was a wonder I learned to talk at all, the way I was raised.”

They stayed silent for a while, each considering their childhoods-- or so Harry assumed, he certainly was. Russ had hinted at a bit more than just being poor in the way he referred to his family. Coupled with how absolutely starved for affection and praise the man seemed to be, well, Harry knew neglect when he saw it. Without thinking, he pulled him closer, rubbing soothing circles along his back. 

“You haven't answered my question.” 

“Oh, right,” Harry said, startled. “Nothing, I suppose. Not in the way you mean, at least. I'm healthy, fit enough. Well off. I might not be the handsomest bloke, but I'm hardly a troll. And I leave cleverness to others, but I'm not a dribbling idiot. No peculiar sexual fetishes, if you discount my growing appreciation for sex with a particular stranger in the dark. I'm just...tired of being a disappointment.”

“A disappointment?” Russ responded, clearly aghast. “You've just listed every virtue a sensible witch looks for in a husband.”

“Maybe they do, and wizards too, but they have an idea of what all those things should be and it isn't me. I don't measure up.” The story of my life, Harry thought wryly.

“Well,” Russ said, snuggling closer and moving Harry’s hand back to his hair, indicating he should continue stroking, “obviously the company you keep don’t know their arse from a hole in the ground, if they think you are in any way a disappointment.”

Harry lightly kissed the crown of his head and continued stroking. Neither spoke again as they waited for the time limit to run out, but Harry was filled with a pleasant warmth at the quiet joy of a soft bed, a man in his arms, and the promise he might have found a potential connection after all.

~~~~~~~~~

Harry was flying high, never before had he experienced the level of intimacy with a partner that he and Russ were rapidly approaching. There was something about the man’s open brusqueness that reassured Harry, left him feeling as if they were both on even ground. It wasn’t a phenomena that he could claim to have any experience with. He lay against Russ, each of them trying to catch his breath, and drew his fingertip thoughtfully over the cup of the other man’s shoulder.

“Well, then, have I convinced you to keep me on, yet?” he asked, unable to help himself, leaning close and softening the cheek with a playful graze of teeth over the graceful arch of a collarbone.

“You’re looking for reassurance from the wrong quarter.” Russ’ voice holds something quite like wariness in it.

Harry felt his breath catch. That wasn’t exactly the easy response he’d expected to his lighthearted teasing-- they’d met several times now, with Russ playing coy that he wouldn’t meet him again, but then agreeing by the follow-up owl each time. He leaned up thoughtfully on his elbow, looking down into the pitch black where his lover’s body should be.

“No? You’re that adamant on keeping your options open? Am I doing something you don’t enjoy, then? You might tell me if I am. Or perhaps I’m simply not doing it well enough? I’ve heard that before, of course. If I’m terrible, then, why do you keep agreeing to meet? I had wanted something just like this when I first came here, did you know? What is it you want, that you signed up for this?” The questions fall from Harry’s mouth like a waterfall and he knows that it’s too much, too soon, but there is something about Russ that settles some loose, rattling piece in his chest and the thought of being left at the wayside again causes panic to leap through him.

“I--good lord, I didn’t expect the Spanish Inquisition today,” Russ’ voice emerges from the darkness, his tone obviously appalled and ill at ease.

Harry closes his eyes against their sudden burning and makes himself to take a deep, slow breath. “Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.” He forces the words out, tries to keep his voice steady, and Russ--

Russ _laughs_. “Your chief weapon _is_ surprise, I’ll agree.”

Harry’s eyes snap open in shock, a laugh of his own escaping him. Whatever he’d expected from Russ--gruff Russ who has stoically resisted every single joke that he’s made in these moments in the darkness--it certainly wasn’t to have Monty Python quoted back to him. He’d half expected to be pushed out of the bed.

“My chief weapon is between my legs, thank you very much!” The words leave him without thought and, to his amazement, Russ laughs again. Harry takes a moment to revel in the ragged, unpracticed sound of it, and breathes a sigh of relief as Russ’ body relaxes into his again. It’s too soon to let his desperation to be loved to ruin this moment, they’re still learning one another. For someone like Russ, Harry thinks, he can be patient.

He has to be patient. One meeting at a time, for now, he thinks, and leans in to murmur another quip into Russ’ ear, letting the pleasure wash over him as that laughter, miraculously, continues to sound out in the darkness.

~~~~~~~~~

“Has anyone ever told you that you have a bit of a possessive streak?” The question was exhaled into the dark of the room as Harry pulled Russ into his arms.

“Oh, you’re just saying that because I have my arms and legs wrapped around you within the first two minutes,” Harry replied with a chuckle, leaning in and nipping playfully at warm skin.

“Yes, well, as much as I enjoy your octopus-like attentions, I have very little room to move.” The words are admonishing, but surprisingly gentle for that.

“Sorry,” Harry said, loosening the grip. He hesitated a moment, his fingertips wandering over his partner's skin. “Is that a problem? I know I have some, er, dominant tendencies.”

“I had noticed that,” Russ said with an amused drawl, “considering I am rather covered in suckerfish marks everytime I leave here.”

Harry responded by moving his mouth to a shoulder, the way he nibbled his way down the slope of it doing nothing to contradict his claim of ‘dominant tendencies.’ 

Russ scoffed, presumably at the strength of his understatement, but instead of saying anything took a moment to return the sentiment by attempting to leave a few marks of his own along Harry’s neck. He very much hoped they lingered on his throat, the wine-colored ghosts of Russ’ mouth. They continued on for several minutes, and Harry assumed the subject had been dropped, until Russ stopped again and broke the silence with an almost tentative tone.

“It isn’t a problem...necessarily. You being a bit dominant,” he said. “A _bit_,” he added pointedly.

That was interesting. Harry could hazard a guess as to what was making Russ so unsure. “It’s difficult to find a good match if you prefer to be only... a _bit_ submissive,” Harry said, borrowing the other man’s terminology. He softened what could become a rather vulnerable conversation for his partner by interspersing his words with light kisses. 

“I know you like to be praised,” he said, muttering an endearment in Russ’ ear and earning a slight shiver, “which is wonderful for me.” He paused to stroke the patch of wiry hair at the base of the man’s belly. 

“And I’m gathering that you don’t mind being teased a little, even though you complain.”

Russ murmured slightly at the change in stimulation and sighed, wiggling a bit beneath Harry’s touch. When he spoke again his voice was hard-edged. “I don’t like being told not to complain. And I don’t like--I don’t want to be teased and then...sent away.”

Harry was beginning to understand his match more and more every encounter. He thought of something that he suspected they might both enjoy. “I can’t imagine anyone ever daring to tell you not to complain,” he said with a laugh. “I would never. And besides, as if I’d ever want to deny myself that utterly gorgeous voice of yours.” He paused to run his tongue over the taut flesh of his neck. Harry could tell there was scarring there, knew enough to guess that it contributed to the unique quality of his partner’s voice, but it was disarming to discover it seemingly anew each time he kissed a line down the length of Russ’ throat thanks to the spells cast on both of them.

“You have an absolute fascination with my neck,” Russ said, clearly attempting to keep the trace of pleasure out of his tone but not quite succeeding.

“That doesn’t sound like ‘stop doing that,'' Harry said with a smile, and continued increasing the pressure as Russ grunted in acknowledgement.

“I have an idea…What if I teased you, but I promise to let you come at the end?” Harry asked. “And I’ll keep you close, I don’t like sending anything of mine away,” Harry added, hoping he wasn’t overstepping too much.

If anything, Russ seemed to relax into his arms further. “Hmm, and how is that different than any other bloody time? You certainly enjoy stretching our encounters out as much as possible,” he said, and if it was intended as a complaint it was not a very convincing one. 

Harry positioned them so he was seated on the bed with his back resting against the smooth headboard. Russ was pulled back against Harry’s chest and settled in the vee of his lap. He folded his legs loosely underneath them, heels brushing the backs of Russ’ thighs and allowed his mouth to find Russ’ neck. His hands roamed over the front of Russ’ chest, stopping to tweak a nipple or lightly scratch and stroke his inner thighs. Harry continued his touches and kissing and lapping along his ear until Russ began to whine in annoyance. “Were you planning to touch my cock anytime soon, or will I be expected to take care of that myself?”

“You certainly won’t be,” Harry said with an edge of authority, and he felt a very slight shiver from the body pressed against him. He took hold of Russ’ hands and pressed them against his own thighs. If you need to move them or squeeze, you can, but don’t move your hands away from there. I’ll be doing all the rest of the touching,” he said, voice filled with lust.

“Have you ever edged before?” Harry asked.

Russ didn’t reply as much as groan. “Yes,” he said with a petulant hiss.

“You’ll tell me when you’re close, and then I’ll stop until you calm down a bit. Then we’ll keep going.”

“For how long?” Russ asked quietly, and Harry could tell there was a hint of anxiety in the words, but there was also more than just a hint of interest. 

“As long as you can stand it,” Harry whispered into his ear. “I bet you can be such a good boy for a while. Let’s see, hmm?” Harry moved down to finally stroke the shaft, pausing to collect the bit of fluid from the tip and swirl it around the head, then continuing light strokes down to the base and up again.

His partner thrust into his hand, attempting to gain more friction, but Harry just paused until he stopped. “That’s a good boy,” he said, “just relax and let me make you feel good.” He resumed his motions, while continuing to devour the man’s neck with licks and kisses. 

After a while of being teased and stroked, he interrupted with, “I’m…I’m close.” Harry immediately moved off, moving his hands to cover Russ’ who was squeezing his fingertips down into the flesh of Harry’s thigh. He knew he would have fingertip shaped bruises there, in the morning, and wasn’t _that_ a delicious thought. “That’s good,” Harry murmured, “just breathe for a little bit, and tell me when to start again.”

This continued on for several more instances, Harry bringing the man under his hands right to the edge and then stopping when Russ told him--although the coherency of the words degraded significantly each subsequent time. In the pauses, Harry would move to rub at his knees or over his hands again, or simply wrap his arms around Russ’ chest and hold him close. Harry began to learn exactly what his partner liked best, and what evoked the best reactions. 

He slicked his hand with conjured lubricant, increasing pressure here and there. He stopped to cup and tease his bollocks, lightly stroked the skin behind them, and pausing to tease the outside of the ring of muscle there with a fingertip. Each action earned him a reaction: from complaints about what a sadistic brat he was to a throaty moans and pleas to continue--harder, faster. More than once, Harry had to take several deep breaths, his own cock hard and leaking against Russ’ backside. Right now was about his partner’s pleasure, he reminded his cock firmly, doing his best to ignore its needy impatience. 

Harry was surprised at how many times Russ allowed himself to be taken to the edge and then have his release denied. After each time he signaled that he was getting too close, Harry thanked his lover, promising how good it would feel when he finally got to come, whispering praises and terms of endearment against the shell of his ear. He took his time, gently soothing his lover until he was again calm enough to continue. Harry had lost count by the time Russ finally started begging, shaking with need and soaked in sweat. 

“Please, please, please,” Russ moaned, the words barely formed. “I need to, I need to come, _please stop teasing_.”

“Shhh, almost, sweetheart. You’ve been so good. Can you give me just one more? Can you ask me to stop just one more time, and then the next time you’ll get to come, I promise.”

The garbled half-moan, half-whine nearly caused Harry to go over the edge himself, and it took every inch of his self control not to just start rutting against his lover. They were both slick with sweat and the temptation to end this now, to turn them and press Russ to the mattress, to slide their cocks together in a heated glide, was almost more than Harry could bear, but he knew that Russ deserved better than such a greedy lover. 

His breathing was so erratic and heavy that Harry thought Russ might not be able to hold back anymore, that he would succumb after Harry had tormented him for so long. As ever, Russ apparently lived to defy his expectations, a low whimper ripping free from his throat as Harry twisted his palm over the length of his cock.

“Please.”

Harry reached up with his free hand and stroked lovingly down the line of his throat, that ruined flesh that he only remembered in these dark moments. “Please what, sweetheart?”

“Please, _please_\-- I want to come,” the words are wrung out of him with a ragged keen of sound.

“You _could_ come,” Harry whispered, his tone implying the exact opposite of permission. He licked his lips, anticipating the feel of Russ going tense in his arms, shouting out hoarsely in his pleasure and then sagging limply against Harry, imagines the hot slick of Russ’ spend dripping down his fingers and then sliding over his own cock as he uses the same hand to bring himself to orgasm. “You could come,” he repeats hoarsely. “But you’ve been _such_ a good boy for me, sweetheart. Don’t you want to try again one more time?”

“P-please,” Russ whimpers, and Harry can hear the tears of frustration in his voice, thinks that when this is over, when they are finished and fucked out that he will explore his lover’s face with his fingers and look for the trail of those tears.

“Please what, Russ?”

“St-_stop_.” The word is a ragged, hiccuping sob. “I...I’m close. Please...please stop.” It’s a wail of sound and talons of fingers dig their way into Harry’s thighs in what can only be retaliation. A low hiss leaves him, as the pain causes his hips to jerk up slightly against the warm cradle of Russ’ arse. He probably deserved it, he thought, considering the way the body in his arms was shivering against him.

Harry moved his hands off his cock and wrapped them tightly around Russ’ chest as it heaved with another strangled sob. Harry waited until his partner’s breathing was slightly more under control, although at this point that was a nearly impossible feat.

“You’re amazing,” Harry crooned softly. “So good for me, so perfect.” 

Nothing Russ was saying sounded anywhere close to coherent English, but Harry guessed it was a plea to continue, one that he was more than happy to indulge. Soothingly he slid his palms down the planes of Russ’ sides, stroking briefly over his hips and then firmly grasping them, shifting his lover in his lap just enough that his cock nudged firmly against the pucker of Russ’ entrance, leaving them both shuddering hard at the sensation.

“Come for me, sweetheart. You’ve earned it, come. Let go.” The effect was instantaneous, Russ bucking down against him and ripping a low cry from Harry’s chest that was drowned out by the snarl of Russ’ pleasure as they each found their release.

When he came back to himself, Russ was limp against his chest, insensate, and Harry shifted them in the bed, tucking his lover against his chest and whispering soft praises and endearments to him. He doubted Russ heard a thing as he stroked a gentle hand up and down the length of his spine, but he’d promised to keep him close and he had every intention of following through on it.

When Russ finally stirred against him, their heartbeats had slowed and their sweat had cooled. Harry pressed a kiss to his temple and followed it with a nuzzle against silky hair. “Such a good boy,” he murmured softly, and smiled when Russ twitched violently against him.

He stroked a slow hand down his lover’s back again. “So,” he said, after a further few moments of silence to allow Russ to collect himself. He would love to have the other man laid bare before him always, but knew it was too much to ask. “How was that?” He expected a noncommittal, aloof answer, as was his partner’s nature when he closed himself back off after each of their sessions together.

“Amazing,” Russ said, simply and quietly. “It was amazing.”

~~~~~~~~~

Harry rushed into the sunny cafe and quickly located his friends at a cozy looking booth in the far corner. He paused again to check his shirt was buttoned up correctly and made a completely useless attempt to smooth out his unruly hair, made all the more a mess by his earlier activities.

“Sorry I'm late!” Harry said, collapsing into a seat, his face still flushed from rushing over. Well, that and...other things. He pushed down a smile at the memory, and tried to switch gears to ‘spending time with Ron and Hermione.’ “I, er, lost track of time."

Ron and Hermione shared a look. "You've been losing track of time rather a lot lately," said Hermione with a smile. “Well, someone’s been missing you,” she added, holding up her infant daughter, already reaching towards Harry.

“There’s my Rosie-Posie!” Harry exclaimed, taking hold of his niece and pulling her close to tickle her tummy. He grinned when she squealed in delight. 

“So, how go the…_encounters_,” Hermione asked. “Are you still seeing the same man each time? Or different people now?”

“Same bloke,” Harry said, grinning at the memory. “It’s been...oh, wow, it’s really been amazing. We--”

“We don’t need to be talking about any of _that_ in front of the B-A-B-Y!” Ron interrupted.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Ron, she’s six months old. Besides, I’m dying for some details. What’s got you so happy, Harry?”

“He’s met a nice bloke and they are having a nice time, I’m sure,” Ron squeaked. “I don’t need any more details than that.”

“You know, it’s a wonder Rosie even exists, if you’re like this all the time about sex,” Harry said, teasing. 

“Oh, not _all_ the time,” Hermione said with a smirk. “Why, just the other day--”

“Hermione!”

“Relax, Ron,” Harry said, holding up Rose with a laugh and dancing her about a bit in his lap, this time letting her existence make his point. “I _do_ know you have sex.”

“To answer your question, Hermione,” Harry continued, looking pointedly at his friend, “He’s just so much more compatible with me than I expected. And it’s not just the sex, which is _phenomenal_, by the way.” Ron grimaced and Harry smirked at the sight of his friend’s ears turning red. It was funny how they’d all changed since Hogwarts. Ron had lost his broad interest in the fairer sex once he’d stumbled into his relationship with Hermione, and turned into something of a prude. His cheeks and ears glowed with embarrassment whenever anyone discussed their sex lives. Christmas Dinner was always a treat, when George and Charlie started detailing their yearly conquests to anyone who would listen. 

“He’s clever. And funny. And he actually has a lot in common with me I think, from what I can tell. We both love Monty Python, for one.”

“Have you talked about meeting up outside of that? You can right, if you want to? It is technically a dating service, isn’t it?” Ron asked, apparently glad the subject had shifted a slightly off the physical.

“Oh, well, a bit,” said Harry, trying to keep his tone vague, as if it wasn’t a big deal. He busied himself with Rose, silently counting out fingers and toes with gentle taps of his fingers, wincing as she used the opportunity to grab a handful of his hair and yanked. “We haven’t agreed to anything though.”

Hermione’s expression changed to a more serious one. “We’re glad you like this man, Harry, but we're concerned about you. You do get, well, attached quickly. We don’t want you getting hurt.”

Harry didn’t want to be hurt either. The idea that Russ might be only interested in sex, nothing more, threatened to close his chest up with panic and he fought to take in a calming breath, tucking Rose closer to him in an attempt to fend off the pending distress. She smacked at his jawbone in retaliation. Harry’s chest loosened.

“And it’s a little weird mate,” Ron added. “I understand why you started there, with what you went through with the last ones. But you seem to have, erm, _meetings_ very often now and you've never even seen this person!"

"That's the whole point! It's...freeing. The system that Encounters uses is in place to keep us safe and it, well, we can trust in that so we can trust each other."

"Is that wise, Harry? This person you're not seeing, he--he could be anyone!" Ron’s eyes widened in shock as an idea struck him. "You could be sleeping with Malfoy!"

"I am not sleeping with Malfoy." Harry said firmly. The idea didn’t even bear thinking about.

"How would you know?" Ron’s voice was rising in pitch as he gathered steam for his argument. “You can’t see him, for all you know he’s--”

"His voice is nothing like Malfoy's whinging," Harry cut off the burgeoning fight with confidence.

"A wizard can change his voice," Hermione pointed out.

"Yeah, but Malfoy would never choose to sound like this." Harry closed his eyes, fighting a shiver as he thought of Russ' voice, the rasp and growl of it, the smooth way he enunciated each of his words when he spoke, as if he had an absolute grasp of every word in the dictionary, the warm-- Ron’s voice broke into the fantasy.

"All right, _all right_! We don't need to look at that expression.” Ron scoffed when Harry stuck his tongue at him in amusement. “It's not Malfoy, then. Doesn't mean it couldn't be someone else-- Goyle!"

Harry makes a face, picturing that for a moment, because the knowledge he has of Russ' body is muddled, here in the crowded daylight. It _could_ very well be _a_ Goyle, though Russ is too old to have been his classmate. "I suppose you're right." The words are surprisingly even as he speaks them. He doesn’t think he _wants_ Russ to be part of a pureblood Slytherin family, but it wouldn’t matter if he was.

“Harry! Doesn't that bother you?” Hermione asks the question, surprisingly. She’s usually the first to argue about preconceived prejudices, but perhaps she’s simply amazed that Harry is taking the idea so well. Ron’s face has gone lax with shock. Harry smiled and looked down at Rosie in his arms, chucking his fingers playfully under her chin and then stroking over her soft, chubby cheeks.

“No. Whoever he is out here…” Harry looked back up at his friends and waved his hand in a ‘who cares’ gesture. “It doesn't matter. What matters is who he is when he's with me.”

“And who is that?” Hermione’s got her shrewd look on and Harry shifts uncomfortably.

“Someone who needs me.” There is so much more to it, of course, but when Harry pares it down to the basic essentials, that’s what it is. Russ needs _him_, not Harry Potter, savior of the wizarding world. Just him. Harry.

“Oh, Harry. That’s not something to base a relationship on. What about his expectations? His hopes and dreams? His _morals_? All joking aside, this man could have been a sympathizer with Voldemort. The Ministry likes to pretend that they’ve rounded up all the Death Eaters, but we all know that isn’t the case. It’s _dangerous_.”

“I can’t explain it, ‘Mione. I know all of that, I could make lists of all the things I know.” And lists of all the things I don’t, his mind added bitterly. “I’m not going in blind here, I promise. Encounters has measures in place to keep anyone from being hurt physically. As for my heart, well. I have to risk it, don’t I? Where would I be if I didn’t?”

“...I suppose you’re right. I would hate to see you lock yourself away like that. But, Harry, won’t you at least _try_ and find out a little more? For our peace of mind? We worry, you know.”

“I know. I promise I’ll try to find out more.” A loud gurgling sound emerged from the baby in his arms, followed by a sharp wail, and Harry started in surprise. “Ah, this is yours, then.” Carefully he passed the reddening Rose back over the table to her doting parents, smiling to himself as his problems were virtually forgotten in their rush to fawn over their infant daughter. As it should be, Harry thought, watching Ron improvise a game of peek-a-boo and Hermione’s expression run through her mental list of ‘what does the baby need.’ Some day I’ll have this, he swore silently. He just had to convince someone else.

~~~~~~~~~

“You know, we don’t know very much about each other.”

Harry felt the man beside him turn in the bed. “If _those_ are the reactions you get when you ‘don’t know much about me,’ perhaps you shouldn’t learn any more. I’m not certain my blood pressure could withstand it.”

Harry laughed and turned to face him. It was still surreal, speaking to what could just as well be an empty space, but he was comfortable enough with Russ by now that conversing this way didn’t bother him much. “I’ve got you down pretty well sexually, but I’m always ready to learn more,” Harry said, a bit of a leer in his voice, and Russ huffed a short chuckle. He tried not to get lost in the light pillow talk their conversation typically ended in, remembering his promise to Ron and Hermione. “I meant...personally.”

The man beside him shifted, the motion speaking to Harry of restlessness, discomfort. “Yes, that is rather the point of anonymous relations in the dark with strangers. If you’ll recall, you’ve not been a fount of knowledge yourself.”

“We’re hardly strangers at this point, you know. Even if we don’t tell each other anything.” As Russ had pointed out, they knew the responses of each other’s bodies, the sounds the other made when they succumbed to the wash of orgasm, but aside from a few inconsequentials and a few deeper hints at truths gleaned from those conversations-- the way Russ tried hard to hide his sense of humor, the wary way he asked for things that he enjoyed, the way his cleverness shined through with his thesaurus vocabulary, the hard meanness of his wit… It was like cutting open an apple and seeing the skin and the seeded core, but nothing else, none of the fruit. 

And Russ was right, he’d hardly offered any truths of his own when each time he’d tried to gently broach this very topic in the beginning of their, well, _relationship_, he’d been put off. It was too frightening to share yourself, when your partner wouldn’t do the same. No amount of Gryffindor courage could convince him to take that final step without reciprocation. As the silence stretched for one moment, then two Harry was convinced Russ was going to brush him off again. Which is why it was so surprising when Russ responded, very quietly.

“What is it that you want to know?”

Now that the opportunity has arisen, he couldn’t think of a thing to say. Maybe start with something easy. Something like--

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Wow, right out the gate with a question like that?” Russ inquired with a hint of relief. “Very well. It’s green.”

“Mine too!” Harry exclaimed, far too excited over such an inconsequential detail.

“Well, now we’ve proven our compatibility. Shall we write the proprietor of this establishment to commend the spellwork involved in matching us?” Russ said, his tone as arid as the desert.

“Oh, shut up, you berk,” Harry said. “It’s nice, is all.” A moment of thoughtful silence passed. “I have green eyes, you know,” Harry said, almost as an afterthought.

“No. I didn’t know.” Russ voice sounded impatient, and Harry felt a bit chagrined at the obviousness of his words, but there was something underneath the impatience that niggled at him until Russ continued. “What’s your favorite book?”

“Hmm. I’m not sure if I have a specific favorite. I like those muggle detective novels. I have a big collection of fairy tales a friend got me for Christmas once. Muggle and wizarding ones,” Harry said. “What about you?”

“Austen.” Harry had heard the name before, a muggle author he thought, but he was sure he hadn’t read any of the books. He made a mental note to take a look around, the next time he visited a bookseller’s. Russ was quiet for a few moments longer, and Harry wondered if he was going to continue the game, and what he would be likely to ask. “Why are you here?” Finally emerged from the darkness and Harry was surprised by the cautious curiosity of his tone. 

“At Encounters you mean?”

“Yes. You must know,” Russ hesitated again, clearly wanting an answer but not willing to provide much himself. “You must know that people typically don’t continue with the same match over and over again. It’s either strictly used for casual sex, or--” Russ finished abruptly.

“Ah,” Harry said, taking his meaning. “I guess I’m mostly here for the ‘or’.” 

“There are other dating services. Matchmaking, too, if you’re in want of a spouse.” Harry tried not to take to heart that Russ didn’t offer any reassurance of his own intentions at Encounters.

“Yeah. I’ve probably tried them all. And plenty of trying to meet people the old fashioned way.” An endless parade of people, it had seemed like for a while.

“Again, what’s wrong with you? Are you exceptionally hideous? On the run from the law?” Russ’ voice held a surprising edge to it, as if he almost _needed_ for there to be something wrong with Harry.

“No and no.” Harry tried to think of how to explain it without giving too much away. As much as he desperately wanted to come clean with Russ, it was becoming more obvious that getting him to agree to taking what they had beyond the safety of the dark room would be like gentling a wild animal. As easy as just saying “I’m Harry freaking Potter” would be to explain his situation, he doubted that would make things with Russ any easier. “It’s the pressure of formal dating services I think. Everyone goes in thinking they already know what they want...what they’re going to get...I just wanted something that could develop organically. Without the...weight of expectations.”

Russ was silent for a very long time. “But you do want that,” he said. “More.”

“Yes,” Harry said in a small voice, preparing himself to be brushed off or worse, outright rejected.

“To borrow an illustration from one of those muggle fairy tales, you’re going to end up kissing a lot of frogs.”

“Probably,” Harry said, his throat tight. He was so tired of _‘frogs.’_ “But what else am I supposed to do? Shut myself away from everyone? I don’t think I could harden my heart that much if I tried, but perhaps I should give it a go,” he said bitterly. He thought back to the serial list of boyfriends and girlfriends he’d had in the past. He’d always been so quick to dive in, pour every bit of love he had into another person, desperate to be filled back up with it. He’d had his heart broken more times than he cared to count, inevitably coming to the realization each time that he just hadn’t found the right person yet, no one willing to stay for the right reasons. He had friends who cared about him deeply, and family with the Weasley’s now, and he was so lucky and grateful for that. But he couldn’t find a mate who wanted ‘just Harry.’ “Maybe one day I will,” he said, defeated.

“Don’t,” Russ said, startling Harry with the commanding tone. “Don’t harden your heart, you’ll become callous and cruel and miserable.”

Harry could sense Russ was speaking from experience, and reached out to smooth a comforting touch over his lover’s arm.

“Do you think I’m being foolish? I could be focused on solving real problems in the world, instead of spending so much time looking for...love,” Harry asked, the last word added with trepidation, as it was not a word yet mentioned in their encounters.

“No,” Russ answered firmly. “It takes an extraordinary strength of character to continue putting yourself out there. Especially if you’ve been hurt before.” Despite the complimentary words, Harry felt his lover move away, putting inches between them, and Harry felt a pang at the loss of warmth. “But you shouldn’t waste it on the wrong people.”

“You can’t waste something like love, Russ. It’s freely given, wrong people or not.”

“I hope you have your faith in people is rewarded one day, Leo.” Although it wasn’t Harry’s actual name, he warmed at the thought of his lover using it, although the melancholy voice dampened the joy significantly. “One day you’ll find someone who deserves you.”

_I want it to be you_, Harry thought to himself, but didn’t dare say anything like that out loud. Instead, he rattled off another innocuous question, which Russ answered and then returned. They talked the rest of the way through their meeting time, discussing everything from dream holiday destinations and favorite foods to how they took their tea. They talked about movies and the weather and other impersonal things in a comfortable and quiet inanity, with Harry trying his best to ignore the way Russ had closed himself off after those brief moments of connection, trying to ignore the nagging desire to worm his way through the man’s defenses again and settle into a heart that so clearly knew what it was like to be broken, and trying not to wonder how he could put it together again.


	2. Chapter 2

It starts small, without Harry realizing what it is. 

He starts cooking too much at mealtimes and frowns over the leftovers in confusion, because he’s been used to making meals for one ever since leaving Hogwarts. Still, he can’t seem to help himself as he prepares meals, measuring out and mixing together enough ingredients for two. He tries to pass along the extra to Ron, who still eats like a horse, or any of his other friends who are still suffering their own bachelor cooking, but something about the sharing sits uneasily with him. And that bothers him, too, because he’s never minded sharing what he has with his friends. The feeling of…_dissatisfaction_ only grows, however, and after a couple of weeks he gives in, still not understanding, and begins to prepare for the apparent eventuality of leftovers. 

He tries to buy a few new robes when Hermione nags him about the fraying hems of his favorites, but the shop girl’s ‘helpful’ attentions only serve to frustrate him. Harry has never in his life been interested in fashion beyond his own comfort in what he’s wearing, but for some reason he pauses to hear more than the stock, “These robes are very _in_ right now and will look absolutely stunning on a wizard with your frame.” They’re cozy enough, Harry will grant the sales witch that, but the ruffles of lace are awful even to Harry’s general lack of knowledge of clothing trends. He stares down at the robes for several long moments, waiting for a pointed barb that never comes. 

‘_Appalling. Simply hideous. You’re a full grown man, not a toddling infant. What **are** robe designers thinking these days?’_ his mind finally supplies for him in a strange growl. 

Harry glances around the dressing room at the thought, confused, for a second, to find himself alone and then looks back down at the robes. He hated blue robes, he decided, and yanked them off. Nevermind that his second favorite pair in the wardrobe at home are the exact same shade as these. He leaves the shop without buying anything.

The small things begin to pile up and Harry starts to wonder if he’s losing his mind. One evening he finds himself glancing out his window so often he develops a crick in his neck, certain he’s heard a pointed rap at the glass. The next day he forces himself out of the house, thinking that perhaps Hermione is right and it’s finally time to find a career to fill his time, rather than various occasions of charity work when he was asked. He’s certain of it when he returns home that night with his arms full of packages he has no use for at all, half of which he isn’t even sure of the purpose of. If he’s going to start spending his money frivolously he’ll need to find something to keep himself busy.

With a sigh, Harry sets his packages aside and resolves to consider it tomorrow. He’s tired from walking through Diagon Alley all day and looking forward to the opportunity to put his feet up and relax. In short order he’s made himself a cup of tea, gathered a plate of biscuits, and has ensconced himself on the sofa in front of his telly. He flicks through the channels idly for a moment, considering what he wants to watch until his eyes light on a marathon of Monty Python showing on the BBC and he grins in delight. 

“Look, Russ it’s--” Harry bites the words off as he turns to face the reality of the emptiness of the room. All at once the events of the last few weeks begin to make perfect, dreadful sense. It isn’t that his philanthropic endeavors aren’t offering him enough of a challenge, it’s that he wants to share these things with Russ. Meals and shopping for robes; dark grey woollen scarves that are so soft to the touch that they might have been made from clouds, a book on the treatise of spell layering, and a bag full of Pepper Imps-- things Harry never would have purchased for himself. 

He still used his old Gryffindor scarf, worn and familiar, had never looked deeper into spellwork than it took for him to cast the spell, and Pepper Imps had always made his nose itch and his eyes water, yet he could not resist buying all of them today, for Russ. He had spent all of the day before looking out the window, he realized, waiting to receive the owl from Encounters, waiting to hear when Russ would meet him again.

And Monty Python… Harry looked up at the still-flickering telly and swallowed against the sudden tight feeling in his throat. He didn’t want to watch Monty Python alone. He waved his hand and the television set went dark with a sparking blue pop. Harry grimaced. He’d probably need to replace it now, but he couldn’t bring himself to care further than the hassle of doing so. Maybe he wouldn’t bother, he wouldn’t find much enjoyment in the idea of watching alone, now. Loneliness ached in the pit of his stomach and he abandoned his tea and biscuits, shuffling his way down the hall to his bedroom.

His bed was just as empty as the rest of his house and Harry tipped himself into it without bothering to undress. His sheets smelled of his laundry soap and faded hints of his own shampoo, but nothing else. Even the moonlight shining in through window was disconcerting, bathing the room in melancholy blue shadows, nothing like the pitch-dark of the room he shared with Russ at Encounters. Harry turned his back on the window and closed his eyes, tried to imagine the quiet breathing of his lover emerging behind him. The illusion of was soothing for a few moments, something loosening in his chest that he hadn’t even realized had tightened.

He added to the fantasy after another few moments, remembering the weight of Russ’ body leaning into his, the scratchy growl of his voice as he informed Harry oh so matter-of-factly how he wanted to be touched. The tension that had been hiding in his chest moved lower and, blindly, Harry worked himself out of his robes, tossing them over the edge of the bed and then groaning in dismay at the coolness of his sheets. If Russ was with him the bed would be warm and inviting, would smell of a peculiar mix of earthy herbs and something sharp and sour that shouldn’t blend together half so well as it did. Eventually, though, as he wiggled down against the cool linen in frustration, the sheets warmed and Harry allowed the fantasy to pull him back in.

The last time they had met Russ had asked Harry to guide his touches, had asked to be allowed to bring Harry pleasure so hesitantly-- as if Harry would deny him anything, as if he didn’t offer Harry just as much pleasure every time they’d come together before, in sweet sighs and gasping grunts, in the warm clutch of his body. Harry imagined those touches now, the sweeping brush of a fingerpad over his nipple, the soft necklace of kisses that had been brushed over his clavicle. For a moment, he tried to picture the way Russ had draped his body over Harry’s, tried to picture how they had fit together, but the notice-me-not spell had blurred those details, had deemed it unsafe for him to know which of them was taller, and frustration threatened to swamp Harry until he forced the thought way.

Stubbornly Harry focused on his clearer recollections, the way Russ’ fingertips had gripped Harry’s hips tightly as he’d licked a slow line over the length of his cock. Harry reached teasingly between his legs and tried to mirror what he remembered. Playful licks became light, brushing strokes of his fingertips, and he shuddered when he finally wrapped his hand fully around his erection, though not near so violently as he had three days ago, when the wet heat of Russ’ mouth had slid _so_ perfectly over his shaft.

“Ahhh, Russ,” he whispered, rolling onto his back to take a firmer grip on himself and flinching when the moonlight intruded on his thoughts again, flaring behind his closed eyelids. He immediately went back to his side, but his focus slipped away like a memory into a pensieve. With a groan he released his cock and blinked eyes open into a room that _wasn’t enough_. He’d lived here for 7 years, picked out each piece of furniture and each color himself, had loved the comfort and solitude he’d found here over so long, and now it needed _more_. It needed Russ. _He_ needed Russ.

He threw his elbow over his eyes, blocking the dim glow of the moon, and tried to ignore both the throbbing between his legs and the empty ache in his chest long enough to get to sleep.

~~~~~~~~~

There was a fever in Harry’s bones. Four days he’d waited for the owl from Encounters to tell him if and when Russ would meet him again, and then another two days before they could both meet. Two days too long with the knowledge that he wanted his lover by his side and turning to find only empty spaces. He breathed a sigh and let it out quietly as the cooler air of the dark room swept over him in his alcove, but it did nothing to cool the frustrations that had been slowly building in him over the past weeks, frustrations that he hadn’t known how to name, but ate away at him all the same.

He stalked into the room, following the ever-knowing tug of the locator spell with pent-up purpose. As soon as Russ’ robe brushed his fingers he yanked the other wizard in, fingers twisting tightly into the cloth as if to prevent his partner’s escape. Unerring, Harry knocked their lips together, relinquishing one hand’s hold in the robe only to shift its claim to Russ’ hair, fingers tangling in the fine strands. 

Russ gave a startled yelp into his mouth, but Harry didn’t pause to consider it, instead taking advantage of the sound to sweep his tongue into his lover’s mouth and giving a growl of pleasure at the familiar taste of the kiss, letting it soothe, however minutely, the jagged edges of his desire.

“Did you miss me,” Harry growled the words into his mouth, ignoring the niggling feeling of unease that prickled along his scalp at the harsh way he’d asked the question. “Tell me,” he demanded again, pulling at Russ’ hair with a roughness he hadn’t used with him before. 

“Hmm, you may have crossed my mind once or twice, I suppose.” Russ’ tone was light, and while Harry usually enjoyed bantering with him a bit in this manner, today the words were like a white-hot electric shock, and he let out a low growl. 

“Well, you certainly kept me waiting long enough,” Harry snapped, what had been frustration tipping over into anger, now. The object of his desire was suddenly here, in the flesh, and seemed less attainable than ever. If he could not possess it, then, he would leave his mark behind, at least, he thought and pushed them both to the bed roughly. He kissed Russ with punishing force, nipping at his lips, and gnashing their teeth together, even as he felt Russ attempting to catch his breath beneath him.

“Working hard enough for you?” Harry continued with a snarl, suddenly feeling at odds with himself, his thoughts lost in fury. He knew this feeling, this callous, angry demon, had felt it emerge from his mouth, take over his limbs and lash out at those who had come before Russ. Panic welled in his throat, but it didn’t stop the words that came next. “Is that all you can give me, pathetic little grunts?”

A long fingered hand wrapped around his shoulder and tightened, each finger digging a brand into his flesh and Harry winced, anger receding under the pain of that grip and he could suddenly hear Russ’ ragged breath over the pulsing of his own heartbeat. Terror welled in Harry’s throat, he knew-- he _knew_ what was coming next, had known each time, though he’d never understood how he’d arrived at this moment.

“Stop.” Russ’ voice was firm, brooked no protest, though Harry couldn’t imagine offering any. What explanation did he have? He had nothing, now. He knew that Russ would not want feeble apologies from him, knew that pleading, promising to do better would only lead them right back to where they were now, quicker next time. He took a shuddering breath, trembled hard against Russ’ still-gripping hand, and closed his eyes against the burning sweat that had run into them, waiting for the inevitable.

The silence ticked out in measures of heartbeats between them, Harry waiting and Russ, he could only assume, silently judging him for his failure. Apologies choked him until he could hold them back no longer and Harry turned his head, pressed his eyes against the forearm holding his shoulder and could not fight back the few tears that slipped free. “I’m _sorry_,” he choked out, throat working painfully. “I’m so sorry, you deserve better.”

A fingertip brushed along Harry’s jawline with surprising gentleness. “And what do you deserve?” his partner murmured, tone thoughtful and measured, as if he were deciding what to do next. Before Harry had time to truly ponder over the uncertainty of what he did deserve--_Nothing, not a single damn thing. The **great** Harry Potter, what a fraud!_\-- lips covered his, not with roughness but a tantalizing tease of tongue, a slow exploration that drew Harry out of his thoughts and back into the moment. The kiss was broken and Harry found himself breathless. “I...I don’t…,” he mumbled, dazed by the fact that Russ had not tossed him out on his ear and was, in fact, still willing to continue on in their encounter.

“I think you’ve lost your _”dominant tendencies”_ privileges tonight,” Russ said evenly and the authority of his tone sent a shiver through Harry, despite his confusion. 

“I don’t know--” he tried again, still half-caught in the sticky spiral of emotion that had landed him here, slowly being pressed into the mattress by the weight of his lover’s body. 

“I do,” said Russ. “I know exactly what you need. You need to be the one to feel the effects of our encounter for days afterwards.” Russ lowered his mouth to Harry’s neck, mirroring the hard sucks and bites along the flesh that Harry typically lavished over Russ. A low keen rent the air between them and it took Harry a moment to realize that the sound was escaping _him_. 

“I know what you _deserve_,” his lover’s lips traced the words out against his throat. “You deserve to see my marks all over your neck tomorrow,” Russ continued with a growl, his meandering path along Harry’s flesh drawing a breathless gasp of pleasure--and confusion at the direction the evening had suddenly taken--from him. Still caught in the surprise, Harry allowed himself to be pushed fully down without protest, tipping his head back to give his partner more room to roughly suck bruises into the planes and valleys of his chest. He jerked in surprise when Russ paused to pinch and flick a nipple with surprising harshness. 

“R--Russ?” Harry questioned softly, arousal pooling in his belly at the ripples of slight pain that radiated from his chest and, though he would not have thought it, from the way his lover had taken control. He reached out to touch him back, but before he could twine his fingers into their customary position in the other man’s long hair, Russ grasped his wrists and pinned them beside him on the bed, enveloping his mouth in a hot kiss. 

“You seem stressed,” Russ purred in his ear, once he broke the kiss, and Harry shuddered violently as he swiped a long lick over the sensitive flesh just behind his earlobe. How had he gone so long without even realizing that the spot was so receptive to sensation. “Why don’t you just lie back and let me take care of that? Don’t move these,” he said, positioning Harry’s hands beside his head and pressing them down slightly into the firmness of the mattress. 

Harry surprised himself with how quickly he gave in, with how much he wanted nothing more to lose himself in being ravished. He’s taking care of me, Harry thought, as Russ kept up the teasing touches and licks, trailing fingers over his heated flesh and pausing to leave marks wherever he set down his lips. When Russ bit lightly at his hip and Harry gave up any pretense at control he might have been holding onto and let out a loud, ragged moan. 

Russ shifted against him, retraced his path back to pressing his mouth against Harry’s ear, hot breath inducing heady waves of pleasure that left Harry shivering, soft sounds of his enjoyment dropping eagerly from his lips. “What lovely sounds,” Russ growled low, then scraped his teeth over the shell of cartilage, hot fingers wrapping around his cock and stroking teasingly. “You’re being _such_ a good boy for me,” he whispered as if it was a secret, as if it were just for the two of them, and Harry was lost, wailing his pleasure for Russ to hear as the sharp wave of orgasm crashed over him. 

He felt limp, wrung out and dazed when he came aware again, but it seemed Russ had no intention of letting him recover if the way his teeth were working little nips over his collarbone was any indication and again Harry found himself surprised by the sensitivity of his own body, by the fire that those scrapes of teeth were burning through him. A long, low whimper escaped him and he squirmed against Russ, the motion smearing the mess of his release between them. 

“Ah, back in the land of the living, I see. And just in time, I was getting impatient.” Russ turned his final nip into a firm suckle against Harry’s flesh and then pulled away, leaning back to stroke his hands from Harry’s hips down to his knees, almost soothingly. Harry whined and tried to lean up, to follow his warmth, but found himself pressed back down firmly. He grit his teeth against the loss and his chest heaved with a sigh, but he did not try again, settled himself down to wait for Russ direction, focusing on the long, slow strokes over his legs. 

“Have you done this before?” The question is quiet, when it comes, and if Harry hadn’t been straining himself, so eager to know what Russ wanted from him, he might not have heard it at all. 

“No.” He feels Russ go still against him and flinches, shaking his head as if it will straighten his thoughts out. “I mean, _yes_, but not--not like this.” 

The stroking resumes, but there’s an almost hesitancy to it now. “Not in the dark with a stranger?” 

Harry breathes out a startled laugh and wishes that he could reach up and wrap himself around Russ again. “I mean, _I trust you._” He licks his lips, surprised to find the truth of the words on the tip of his tongue. “I _want_ you.” 

He says it softly, but he feels the way Russ fingers tighten on his thighs, knows he’s been heard. He wonders, then, if he’s ever truly meant those words before, the way he means them now. “I need you, Russ.” 

Abruptly the gentle stroking resumes and Harry feels the warm press of an open mouth against the inside of one knee and then the other and he shivers as those sloppy kisses slowly trail their way down the inside of his thigh and a warm tongue swirls a path through the lingering sweat in the crease of his hip and continue further to suck hotly over the reawakening length of his cock. Harry is lost again, then, to a pleasure that he doesn’t quite understand, but surrenders to eagerly, knowing that he is safe in Russ’ hands. 

Whimpers and eager moans drip from his lips, broken only by a groan of loss when Russ pauses just long enough to whisper something he can’t hear, the secret becoming obvious as Harry suddenly finds himself loose and slick and pliable, waiting only for Russ’ attentions. 

“Yes, yes, yes, yes, _yes_,” Harry is surprised to find that he’s the one chanting the word as a long, nimble finger slides into him, but maybe he shouldn’t be. He tries to rock down into the sensation immediately, but Russ’ free hand holds him down tightly. “Please. _Please_, Russ.” He understands now, how much he needs the stretch and tightness of those fingers, how much he needs the claim of his lover slowly breaching him. 

“Patience,” Russ murmured against his cock, pressing a kiss to the leaking head as he gently worked another finger into Harry’s body. “Be a good boy for me and I’ll reward you.” He punctuated the promise with a light stroke over Harry’s prostate, reducing him to a gasping sob and violent trembles. 

_I will be. I’ll be such a good boy for you, Russ, I promise,_ Harry thought through the pleasure-fog haze of those fingers stroking into him again-- or maybe he says it, he’s saying something, can feel his throat tightening and relaxing, but he can’t even make out his own words, too focused on the feel of a third digit working its way inside his body. 

“You’re so responsive,” Russ whispered to him, sharing secrets in the dark between them once more, and Harry couldn’t help but to try and rock down against those fingers again. Russ told him to be good, to be patient, but he _can’t_ he needs him, _needs_ to be taken and claimed and kept safe. 

“Please,” Harry sobbed; he knew that word, remembered the shape of it and that it might give him what he wants if he can use it prettily enough. “Please, Russ, _please_.” He wondered, in the very depths of his mind, under the need and desire, if he sounded as drunk as he felt, lost in waves of heat and sensation. 

Even that voice was overwhelmed, however, subsumed by desperation as Russ gently pulled his fingers away and Harry keened in grief, arching down and trying to find his own way to being filled again until his lover took hold of him. 

“Easy,” Russ voice seemed to echo from somewhere far away and Harry sobbed again, needy and longing. “Easy, precious boy.” Hands stroked along Harry’s sides and he breathed a bit easier at the reminder that he was not set adrift in the dark, left wanting and alone. Russ’ voice came again, closer now, his breath ruffling through the wild curls of his hair and Harry allowed the feeling of it to soothe him. “Good boy,” Russ murmured and, _at last_ Harry felt the nudge of a cock against him, the slow burn of his emptiness being filled. 

“Yesssss,” hissed out of him like an invective and he moaned softly as bony hips came to rest fully against the curve of his arse. He was filled, at last, after an eternity, but Russ was still too far and Harry reached out, clutching at him fiercely. 

“Such a greedy boy,” Russ whispered into his hairline and Harry flinched, not certain if he was meant to hear it, but knowing that greed was not a desirable trait in lovers. 

“S-sorry,” the word hiccuped out of him and Harry thought he might sob for entirely different reasons until Russ shushed him. 

“I didn’t say I minded, did I?” A kiss pressed itself against the corner of his eye, warm palms stroked their way over Harry’s ribs and slowly, slowly, the tension unwound itself again from his chest. “There you are,” Russ murmured and then he shifted over Harry, drawing his hips back in a gentle thrust that sent Harry spiraling again, in an entirely new direction. 

Russ kept him from unwinding too far, this time, moving into Harry with slow, even strokes that made him wild with impatience, but breaking up the pattern every so often with the short, sharp staccato thrusts that centered Harry, drew him to a sharp point of awareness and pleasure, and left him begging for more with increasing frequency. Russ would not, however, bring Harry over the edge this way, no matter how much he pleaded with his lover. Harry thought he might come apart at the seams when he finally succumbed again to the heated wash of orgasm, not as fierce and all-encompassing as the first, but still powerfully blissful as it took him apart and rebuilt him into a new awareness. 

When he opened his eyes into the darkness, Russ panting heavily into the curve of his throat and a tell-tale wetness dripping uncomfortably down the crack of his arse, Harry smiled. He felt calm and comfortable, centered for the first time in days. Though he didn’t understand _why_, he was grateful. He waited patiently as his lover caught his breath, enjoying the weight leaning over him, and sighed in loss as Russ pulled out of him, expecting their encounter to come to its inevitable end because it was _his_ job to be the one who initiated the cuddling and small-talk when they were all fucked-out. Harry was pleasantly surprised, however, when Russ tugged him closer, and snuggled down eagerly against his lover’s broad chest. 

“Thank you,” he murmured after another long moment of silence, reaching up to stroke a finger through a scratchy patch of chest hair. “I didn’t…” He sighed and shifted against Russ, turning to press his ear to that warm chest, listening to the comforting thump of his heartbeat for several seconds. 

“_I’m sorry._” The words escape him, pained, and Harry closes his eyes, hoping that he doesn’t have to explain _why_ he’s sorry, hoping that Russ understands what happened as well as he seemed to understand the cure Harry needed, because Harry still isn’t certain what just happened. 

“You shouldn’t let it get so bad,” Russ’ chest rumbled against his cheek with the words and Harry blinked his eyes open, tilting his head back to stare up into the darkness. “You can’t expect accommodations for what you need, if you can’t use your words to ask.” 

Harry’s thoughts spun, trying to figure out what Russ was meant, or at the very least how to ask without giving away his confusion. “I...didn’t know how to ask,” he whispered softly, slowly, as he chose his next words. “But... you knew just what I needed.” 

“It’s easy enough to recognize the signs,” Russ murmured, and Harry thrilled at the gentle touch of fingers stroking through his hair, “when you see them in yourself so often.” 

“The signs,” Harry repeated, trying not to let his confusion bleed through into his tone. “Right.” 

“Whatever you’re doing at work-- whatever frustration or project that you’re shouldering yourself, whatever endeavor is not being shared among your partners _equally_, you should correct it. There has to be a balance, or the frustration bleeds out in places you don’t expect or don’t want.” 

Harry opened his mouth to protest because he was hardly slaving away in a Ministry office, letting his coworkers pile busy work on him. In fact, his most consuming “project” of late has been spending time with Russ and-- _oh_. It made perfect sense, suddenly. The way each of his relationships had crumbled so spectacularly into nothing at the end, the way his previous lovers had taken and taken, until Harry had nothing left to give, and then _kept taking_. And this man in his arms--this beautiful, _stupid_ man had no idea he’d been the very reason Harry had begun to feel the same old frustrations. But where no one else had even bothered to _try_, had only thrown Harry’s inadequacies in his face, _Russ had taken care of him_. 

Harry squeezed his eyes shut at the wave of emotion that washed through him and pressed his ear to Russ’ chest once more, counting heartbeats until he felt steady enough to speak again. 

“I won’t let it get out of hand again,” he said quietly. “I promise.” 

Russ didn’t want to meet him outside of Encounters, yet, but Harry knew that he could continue to be patient. He owed it to both of them. 

__

~~~~~~~~~

Instead of his lover’s gorgeous voice or the feel of warm lips against his, the first thing he noticed when Harry walked into the dark room was a sniffing sound and a dry hacking cough.

“Russ?” Harry called out. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. The pepper-up is wearing off, just give me a moment to take another--” The words broke into coughing again and Harry felt concern well up in his chest.

“What? Are you ill?” Harry let the familiar pull of the locator spell guide him to where Russ was, close to his doorway and apparently using the wall to hold himself up. He smoothed his hair back and noticed a sickly clamminess to Russ’ skin. “Why are you here? Do you need to go to a Healer?”

“Just a cold. Don’t worry, I took the anti-contagion potion before I came, plus the magic of the room will protect you. You won’t get sick.” Harry noticed, now, that Russ voice was more hoarse than usual.

“I don’t care about that,” Harry said, frustrated. “Why are you here? You should be in bed.”

Russ was quiet. Harry sighed. “I wanted to see you too, but we could have easily rescheduled. You should be resting, not expending energy coming all the way out here.”

“I’m alright, the pepper-up will kick in soon, and as I said you won’t catch anything,” Russ said, defensively. “I might tire out a bit quicker, but if I recall you prefer to be the more acrobatic partner anyway so that should pose no problem.”

“What--Russ, we are not having sex. You’re ill, you can’t possibly be in the mood!” Harry was genuinely appalled at the suggestion.

Russ sighed. “I don’t mind, really.” His words said one thing and his tone entirely another. More horrifying was the thought that Russ _expected_ Harry to press him for sex, despite the fact that he was obviously not well.

“You think I’d, I’d just…” Harry trailed off, unable to complete his sentence, he was so shocked by the thought.

“Fine. I’ll just go,” Russ said, aggravated, his tone undercut by the pathetic sound of sniffling.

“Just come here,” Harry said firmly, his brain frantically summoning and rejecting how to handle this situation. He gently steered Russ towards the bed and then lightly pushed him down to sit on the edge of the mattress. Harry stayed where he was standing and reached out carefully to the crown of the other man’s head. He began moving his fingers through Russ’ long hair, slowly stroking. Eventually his ministrations gathered a little more pressure on the man’s scalp, moving into firm but gentle strokes, from his temple down to the base of his neck.

“What are you doing?” Russ asked after several moments had passed and Harry thought he sounded almost suspicious beneath its obvious bleariness. Harry thought, though, that he could feel Russ starting to relax and lean into his touches. 

“Giving you a massage. You don’t feel well, and we are not having sex.” He continued to lavish attention on Russ without pause, mentally gearing up for an argument that never came. “Just relax,” Harry added quietly, when it became apparent that Russ was too sick for even arguing with him.

After several minutes, Harry repositioned his partner to work at his shoulders and back and Russ spoke again. He was much more relaxed sounding this time. “This isn’t...necessary. It’s certainly not the experience you paid for.”

“Are you feeling better?” Harry kept his voice gentle and even.

The silence of hesitation pressed out a beat in the dark and then, with a voice much smaller and softer sounding than Harry was used to, Russ spoke again. “Yes. Very much.” The way he said it-- it was almost as if Russ expected that Harry would immediately stop touching him as soon as he admitted taking pleasure in it. Who was this man, Harry wondered for the hundredth time, and what kind of experiences had he suffered, if he _still_ assumed Harry would just take his pleasure and send him away?

“Then it’s exactly the experience I want,” Harry said firmly, and pressed a kiss to Russ’ temple.

For the first time in their numerous encounters, Harry did not touch him with the intent to arouse, or make the experience erotic. The intimacy was certainly still there as he pressed long strokes into his partner’s back, touching him with the intention of soothing and comforting. He worked out the tension in his back and shoulders, gently caressing and moving his hands to elicit light sighs instead of deep moans. 

By the time Harry had reached his legs, Russ had definitely fallen asleep, but he continued to work out the knots and tightness he found there, finally moving down to his feet. He let the slight vocalizations that interrupted soft snores guide his hands, wanting to remove every ounce of tension from Russ’ body.

When he was sure that Russ was fast asleep and that he had worked out every bit he conceivably could, Harry sat next to him on the bed, positioning his head comfortably on the pillow and stroking the long, limp hair. 

When Russ finally awoke, he seemed startled to find himself still in the dark room with Harry. “Did...did I fall asleep?” he asked, confused.

“Hmm? Oh, yes,” Harry said, sitting up slightly and blinking away the cobwebs of the light doze he’d fallen into. “How do you feel?”

“Better, I--wait, how long have we been here?” The question was plaintive and Harry worried, suddenly, that he’d somehow overstepped.

“Um, went past the time limit, but just once. Not too long ago, though. So a few hours maybe?” Harry guessed. “Do you feel rested though? I still think you need to go home and get some proper recovery. Are you feeling well enough to get home alright?”

Russ was completely silent.

“Russ?”

“Why didn’t you wake me?” he asked, still completely bewildered.

“You needed the sleep? You’re ill?” Harry asked, surprised at the man’s continued confusion.

“You just...gave me a massage until I fell asleep. Then sat with me while I slept. In the dark. For hours.” He sounded incredulous.

“Well, um...I dozed off a little too I think. Although you were snoring quite a bit,” he added with a nervous laugh.

Harry was trying to interpret Russ’ silence. He didn’t seem angry, or even annoyed. Confused, certainly, but...something else? He hoped he hadn’t overstepped too much and yet he couldn’t help pressing his luck. He moved his hand to press his palm against Russ’ forehead testingly. “Oh good, you don’t feel feverish anymore.”

“No, I feel better,” he said, though the confusion in his voice made Harry think he was still a little out of it.

“Wonderful,” Harry said, keeping his tone light, then leaning in and pressing a quick kiss to a high cheekbone. “Do you...I wouldn’t mind taking you home. If you needed me to,” he added but with no real hope his offer would be accepted.

“No...thank you, Leo,” Russ said, still in that slightly dreamy sort of voice. “You were--just, thank you.”

“Alright, well… Feel better soon,” said Harry awkwardly, then leaned in for a goodbye kiss, which Russ unexpectedly returned quite forcefully.

“Yes, thank you, I will,” he said again. “I’ll...see you next time?,” Russ said, uncertainty creeping in under his bemused tone.

“Yes, of course,” Harry replied, and then listened to Russ make his way to the door as they parted ways. Harry didn’t realize it until much later that evening but, after so many encounters, it was the very first time that Russ had committed to another meeting before the response owl. Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that perhaps something very meaningful had happened between them and he felt something stirring in the pit of his stomach, something that felt quite a bit like hope.

~~~~~~~~~

When they (finally, _finally_) met again, Russ had shaken his illness, but something else was wrong.

There was an agitation in his movements, a skittishness to his mood that seemed to make itself known whenever Harry moved in to touch him. Harry tried to blunt the edges of it, to soothe him with soft touches and gentle kisses, but after several moments of half-hearted reciprocation, of flinching and at the brush of Harry’s lips and then a sudden unnatural stillness, obviously forced where Harry’s touches usually made Russ melt into him, Harry was the one to pull slightly away. He clearly needed a different approach.

“What’s wrong?” he asked softly, trailing a gentle hand over his lover’s arm, stopping at his hand to entwine their fingers. “Tell me.”

“Nothing,” Russ replied, entirely unconvincingly. “I had...a bit of a tussle on the way here. Nothing to get worked up over,” he said harshly, as though he was angry with himself for clearly ‘getting worked up’ about it.

“A tussle?” Harry asked, concerned. “Do you mean a fight? Are you hurt? Who did it?” Harry couldn’t stop the barrage of questions, pushed out of his mouth by the surprising fury rising in his chest, a fierce protectiveness bubbling up at the thought of someone hurting Russ. 

“I’m not hurt.” Russ said, then moved in to distract Harry with a business-like kiss. “Let us continue with more pleasant activities,” he said, his voice making an attempt at seduction. His body, however, had other things to say, still held apart from Harry’s, still tense and obviously uncomfortable where they were pressed close. He tried to reinforce his words with another kiss that was just as uninspired as the first and Harry sighed softly against his lips. He thought that he’d convinced Russ that this sort of thing wasn’t necessary, that he shouldn’t force himself, but it seemed another lesson was necessary.

Harry broke the kiss but kept his hand on his lover’s, wanting to hold onto what closeness he could, the one thing that Russ hadn’t reacted badly to or shaken off. He wanted to know, to understand, exactly what had happened to make Russ behave this way. Surely no ordinary “tussle” would send his normally even-keeled partner into such a tizzy, although on anyone else Harry supposed it might not even be obvious as an upset. For a moment, as he squeezed the long-fingered hand in his, Harry imagined how Russ showed his distress. Did his eyes narrow imperceptibly? A slight downturn of narrow lips or a clenching jaw? Would he see it in the dip of a furrowed brow or the taut, straight line of broad shoulders? 

Reluctantly, Harry let go of the momentary daydream and instead stroked his thumb soothingly over the back of Russ’ hand. It wasn’t the time to indulge his desires. He needed to know what had upset his lover and how to fix it. And then, perhaps, he needed to find the witch or wizard who had reduced Russ to this and hex them thoroughly. With his free hand Harry reached up to stroke his fingers through loose hair, tucking strands of it gently behind Russ’ ear. “Tell me what’s happened, love. What’s upset you?”

Russ gave a shuddering sigh at Harry’s question and finally relaxed into their loose embrace, turning his face into Harry’s touch. “It… it’s really nothing.”

Harry tsked softly and dropped his hand to take Russ’ other hand in his own, leading them both over towards the bed to sit. “Don’t give me that, if it were nothing you wouldn’t be upset.” Here, he paused, not certain if he should push it for a second, not wanting to provoke Russ further, but thinking it needs to be said. “You’re allowed to be upset, you know.”

“Of course I know I’m allowed to be upset!” The words held the edge of annoyance that had bled through in some of their first encounters, but Harry didn’t let it bother him. “I’m not a bloody child, I don’t need coddling.”

“I suppose that depends on your understanding of coddling.” Harry smiled a bit. “It seems to me that you could do with quite a lot of it.” He squeezed Russ’ hands again. “Tell me.”

“It really was nothing. A...run-in with someone I wronged.” The swallow that followed the words was faintly audible and set off warning bells in Harry’s mind. “During the war. They didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.” Russ tried to tug his hands away at the confession, but Harry tightened his grip again. He felt almost dizzy as thoughts spun through his mind. He’d expected any number of explanations, but somehow he’d missed this one. Voldemort had been the shadow hanging over his life for so long that it seemed strange, not to have expected him to resurface here, in the darkness between himself and Russ.

“It’s been years since the war.” His voice was almost a croak as he squeezed the surprised words out.

“Not long enough, for some.” Russ clutched at his hands this time, maybe in response to his words, and Harry found himself pathetically grateful for it.

“No, I suppose not. Not nearly long enough at all.” He closed his eyes and took a slow breath, trying not to relive the months of cold and near starvation, the battle-memories still colored with blood, in that moment. “Still, we have to move forward.”

“It’s not so easy-- Not for those of us who d-didn’t make the right f-fr-- the right _choices_.” Harry had never heard Russ stumble in his words outside of sex. He’s precise, pausing to articulate each thought with maximum effect, and Harry’s breath caught in his throat to hear those stutters and all they implied. He’s known that it was possible, of course, knew from the very beginning that Russ could be _anyone_ and all that that entails. It’s surprisingly soothing to have this piece of the puzzle settle into place, to _know_, with that instinctive certainty that resides in the pit of his stomach. Harry had never met a Death Eater who was remorseful, after all.

“Everyone made choices they weren’t proud of during the war.” Harry said the words with the full knowledge of the lives that were lost on his behalf, feeling the heavy weight of each of them on his chest.

“What choices could _you_ have possibly have made--whether or not to hide your mother’s skirts?” The words cracked between them with all the force of a whip. Harry inhaled sharply and then forced himself to let the breath out again slowly, holding back the sharp retort that wanted to escape. How many things could he have changed, how many needless deaths avoided, if he’d made different choices?

Russ had a sharp enough tongue even without aiming for Harry’s sore points, and he’d certainly struck one this time, slamming head-on into a wound that had only just stopped openly bleeding every day after so many years. He forced himself to keep his tone as even as he could. He wanted to be honest, but he didn’t dare share too much of himself when Russ wouldn’t do the same, too afraid that the imbalance between them might frighten off the other man He was pleased that, when he spoke, his voice only wavered once or twice. “Not hardly. I was old enough to have fought a battle or two, thank you very much. Old enough to make stupid mistakes and get people who I cared for killed.”

The anger had fled Russ voice when he spoke again, leaving behind weary remorse, and Harry breathed slightly easier. “I...I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-- It’s just, I didn’t _want_ to have to make the choices I made. What kind of choice is it, to choose between living and fighting another day and the safety or lives of those who are weaker than you--” 

Harry shivered, remembering the cold voice slipping through the air of Hogwarts’ corridors, insinuating itself between him and his friends, people he’d grown up with, people he’d loved for seven years, promising that if he only surrendered they would be spared. “It’s no choice at all, I know.” He smiled sadly at the truth of those words and sighed, the persistent memory of one person who had stared down that choice again and again--always choosing correctly, no matter the cost to him--rising in his mind’s eye. “Well, we can’t all be as brave as Severus Snape,” Harry said wryly.

“Severus Snape?’ Russ voice sounds a bit strangled and Harry winces, beginning to stroke his thumbs soothingly over the back of his lover’s hands, regretting that he hadn’t realized the topic of the war would work them both up so much and regretting that he’s hurt Russ in the process of pressing him about his disquiet, but knowing that it was necessary.

“We wouldn’t have won the war, without him.” Harry says it with as much conviction as he ever has, already feeling the familiar need to defend the man in his absence rise. It’s disheartening, how many people are unable to see how essential Snape’s role in defeating Voldemort was. The way Russ is making another soft choking sound doesn’t speak much for his agreement with Harry’s conviction about Snape.

“Some brave hero-- he’s a skulking hermit. No one’s seen hide nor hair of his ugly carcass in any wizarding spaces in months.” The words are spat with a surprising amount of vitriol and Harry reins in the urge to growl in anger. How can Russ, who just admitted how difficult his own wartime choices were, not understand what Snape went through?

“Severus Snape is the only reason we won the war! He went face to face with Voldemort for years, lied to the monster and walked away with his life every time! I-” Harry stutters here, remembers abruptly that in this space he is not “Harry Potter” and tries to recover before his pause is too obvious, “I doubt Harry Potter would have survived long enough to face Voldemort, if not for him.”

There was an odd wheezing sound and Russ’ fingers tightened painfully around his for a moment before releasing again. “You sound...quite certain.” His voice, when it finally emerges, has an extra layer of hoarseness and an odd note to it that almost sounds like laughter, but it’s not any sort of laughter that Harry has heard from Russ before. “Almost as certain as Harry Potter himself.”

Harry flushed and cleared his throat. “Well. He’s right. Snape’s the bravest man I ever met.”

“Know Harry Potter and Severus Snape, do you?” Russ’ voice still holds that odd note and Harry winces a bit, thinking that this will be hard to explain, when they finally meet face to face.

“Er. We, well. I went to school with Potter. Knew him, ah, a bit. Snape too. A bit.” The last was true enough, at least.

“I see.” Silence stretches between them for several moments and Harry wishes wistfully that he could see the other man, could watch whatever play of emotion must be winding itself over Russ’ face. 

Somewhere, in the corner of his mind, a voice whispers that something is wrong, but Harry couldn’t imagine what might be wrong, his lover’s hands still cupped in his own, their fingers still tangled together. The whisper continues, however, increasing in urgency until Harry can stand it no longer and he breaks the silence nervously. “Russ?”

Russ’ hands squeezed against his and when his voice came again it was soft, surprisingly hesitant. “Would you still want me, if I were as ugly as Snape?”

“Wha-- I...Well he’s not that ugly, you know.” The words tumbled out of Harry’s mouth before he could think about it, but once he did, he realized they were true. 

“You’re cracked.” The hesitancy is still there, but now Russ sounds almost wry.

Harry flushed, grateful, for a split second, for the cover of darkness. “I mean it. I didn’t think so when I was young, I’ll admit. It’s hard to fancy someone who--” He cut himself off, flushing harder. “Well, potions wasn’t my best subject, shall we say? But if he gained some weight, lost that gangly skeleton look about him…” Harry shook the mental image away and forced a soft laugh. “Well, you’re asking the wrong question, anyway. Severus Snape wouldn’t have a thing to do with the likes of _me_, and anyway, I’m perfectly happy where I am.” 

Harry leaned in slowly and smiled when he felt Russ leaning in as well, pressing a soft kiss to the corner his lover’s mouth. “Even if you looked like the giant squid.”

Russ broke away with a choked laugh that held an edge of wildness. “What do you know-- how can you _say_ that? You don’t _know_, you have _no idea_ what I look like. You’ve never even clapped eyes on me, the ugly old man you apparently want to tie to you. You don’t know what I’ve _done_\-- I’m not some damned tragic hero, waiting to turn over a new leaf. The times I’ve been willfully cruel to you alone…! How can you even consider wanting _anything_\--” Harry covered Russ mouth with his own, stemming the increasingly hysterical flow of words with a firm kiss and pulled away only when he felt his lover go still beneath him.

“Shh,” he whispered, pressing another soft kiss to those lips and then lightly trailing his way down to the curve of Russ’ shoulder and resting his forehead there for a moment, pulling in his thoughts before his lover could gather steam again. “You say I don’t know who you are, maybe you’re right.” He pulled away and pressed another soft kiss on that shoulder and then nudged Russ downward, insistent, but calm. Russ, for his part, allowed himself to be pushed down, surprisingly and almost unnervingly docile. The man was a mystery, that was certain enough, Harry thought, but one he’d sacrifice every day to work at unraveling, if that’s what it took.

“I don’t know your name, but I know your lips and how they kissed me when I desperately needed to be held together.” He punctuated the words with a new kiss, moving his lips against Russ’ questioningly, sighing in relief when they parted to grant him entrance. Harry took his time, reacquainting himself with the planes of his lover’s mouth and pulling away with a slow nip of his lower lip. He smiled at the soft whine of loss that escaped that welcoming mouth, and trailed a line of kisses down the line of Russ’ jaw.

“I don’t know the color of your eyes, but I know the sound of your voice lost in pleasure, the growl and gravel of it when you call out for me in need.” He sucked firmly at the pulse beating in Russ’ throat, followed his lips over scar tissue with the edge of teeth, sure in the knowledge that he was leaving his own mark behind on the other man’s ruined skin before trailing down further to a collarbone, winging out sharply.

“I don’t know your first heartbreak, but I know the way you can hardly hold yourself together, when a lover kisses you here,” he murmured, dragging his mouth to Russ’ nipple and pressing his lips over it, leaving a kiss behind as he swirls his tongue playfully over the stiffening nub. Russ jerked beneath him with a stifled gasp and Harry grinned, following his path just a bit further.

“I don’t know what you wished for as a child,” he whispered, nuzzling the plane of Russ’ breastbone and then turning his head to lay his ear against it with a soft sound of contentment at the steady beat that greets him. “But I know the sound of your heart makes as it races beneath my ear, just here, as we slowly come back to earth-- th-thump, th-thump, keeping me from shaking to pieces in your arms.”

Harry listened for a moment longer, then smiled, slowly making his way further downward, pausing in his trail every few inches to continue making his point, trading every unknown for a small, treasured ‘known’ that he has learned about Russ in their time together. He makes his way down over the soft, clenching flesh of a stomach, down the wiry muscle of a leg and back up its mate, fingers exploring inches of skin and trailing through tickling hair until Russ is shivering and shaking beneath each of his touches and Harry has come to the end of his trail. 

He laid his head against the join of Russ’ thigh, soothed by the faint pulse he can feel even there, and stroked a firm finger down the length of his cock. The soft groan that escaped his lover was no surprise, but not quite the enthusiastic response that he’s used to eliciting, and he draws his finger lower still, pressing against Russ’ entrance, circling the dry digit against the ring of muscle with the lightest of touches. 

“I don’t know who hurt you, but I know the feel of this body that accepted me, when no one else would,” he said softly. He lifted his head and shifted back up to his knees, pressing in closer to where he wants to be. “I know the taste of you, the way you writhe beneath my tongue.” He swiped his tongue over that tempting pucker to illustrate. Russ’ sharp wail and the way he rocked his hips down did not disappoint him. 

“I know how much you need me to tell you what a good boy you are.” He punctuated the statement with another swipe of his tongue and then pressed a teasing kiss against Russ’ entrance, stroking his tongue against the curl of muscle and then pressing it through with teasing licks. He reacquainted himself with the taste of his lover as Russ shook apart above him, pulling away slowly after another long moment as Russ continued to quake through the aftermath of his orgasm. 

Harry trailed soothing kisses back the way he had come, laving attention at the join of his hip, where more than a little evidence of his release has pooled, sucking the flesh clean again. Slowly he made his way further up still, sliding a kiss still salty with Russ’ own taste against panting lips. “Don’t I know you?” he whispered softly, nuzzling affectionately over his jawline.

Russ gave a strangled gasping sound, one that he might have described as a sob from any other lover, and jerked his head away from Harry’s mouth. “No. That--that’s not…” He shook his head again, and Harry pulled back just enough to prevent any awkward collisions of faces, his hands taking up his ministrations, stroking gently down over the curves of Russ’ shoulders.

“That’s not what?” It bothered him to think that Russ didn’t believe him, that Russ couldn’t see in himself the goodness that Harry saw. It, perhaps, wasn’t bogged down by the sharper details of what Russ’ life must be like outside of the darkened room surrounding them, but the things they had shared here spoke more clearly to him than whatever he could insinuate about his actions, past or present, good deeds or otherwise.

“Not me. Not who I am.” Russ voice was anguished and he reached up to push Harry’s hands away, obviously intending to flee, but Harry used the movement to catch his hands instead and Russ gave up his struggle pathetically quickly. He wanted Harry’s touch, wanted his attentions so obviously, but couldn’t seem to accept that he deserved them. Harry was going to prove that he did, one way or another.

“So tell me.” He pressed a soft kiss to Russ’ temple. “_Tell me._” He repeated, and trailed 

“I’ve hurt people,” Russ said finally, as if deciding where to start in a long litany of sins.

“You haven’t hurt me,” Harry replied, skating his fingertips down across his chest, along the hard lines of his sternum, ghosting over ribs, briefly twining his fingers in the sparse hair across his skin and then moving on. 

“There’s a selfish view.” Harry paused in his touches, hands fluttering over Russ’ hips, and frowned slightly as Russ continued, his words strangely pointed. “You’re not the only person in the world, you know.”

“No, but I’m human too. Aren’t I allowed to be selfish?” Of all his lovers, Russ had been the first one to understand that Harry had the same foibles as anyone else, but now it seemed almost as if he had forgotten that. 

“I...yes, of course.” The words sounded perturbed and he felt Russ’ chest heave in a soft sigh before the confession continued. “I’ve been willfully cruel.”

“So have I.” Russ made an impatient, disbelieving noise at that and Harry tsked under his breath and tightened his hands against his lover’s hips, whispering a wandless spell. “You don’t believe I have it in me?” He reached between the two of them, fingers trailing over where Russ’ cock still lay quiet, and then lower still, one inquisitive digit working its way into his lover’s now-lubricated body. “I’ve found myself, wand in hand, looking down at the bleeding body of a classmate.” 

He shivered at the memory and pushed it away firmly, choosing instead to focus on the grip of Russ’ body around his finger. “I didn’t mean to take it so far, but I’m the one who started the fight. I certainly meant that.”

Russ’ breath hitched--at his touch, at the truth Harry had given him? He didn’t know--and Harry could hear his hair slide across the pillow as he shook his head. “School boys. Childhood rivalries are always...explosive. No one considers how violent children can be.” Harry wondered at the truth of that statement, but he didn’t think he’d had a normal enough childhood to be able to comment, and lost the opportunity as Russ went on.

“There are those who…. If not for me-- no,” he heaved a sigh and Harry listened to him shake his head again as if he couldn’t decide how to say what he needed to and, so, had decided not to finish his confession.

“Tell me,” Harry commanded firmly, pressing a second finger into Russ and working it into him with a familiarity born of numerous encounters and curling them unerringly to prod Russ’ prostate.

Russ whimpered and squirmed against him, a choked sound of disbelief rattling free from his chest. “Your fingers inside of me, and this is what you want to talk about?!”

“_Tell me_,” Harry repeated, stroking his fingers against that sensitive spot once more, giving his lover no relief.

“Nngh! There are-- _people_ who are.they’re ruined, because of me. Things they will never experience, things they will never--n-never enjoy. Because, because of _me_. Because of the things I’ve said, things I’ve done.”

“There are people who are _dead_ because of me.” The words slip out of his mouth and Harry goes still, waiting, waiting for Russ to throw him off, waiting for the room to zap him away as Russ decides he doesn’t want a lover with blood on his hands and the seconds tick by immeasurably before Russ fucks himself down hard against Harry’s fingers with an almost punishing roll of his hips and a bitten back groan.

Harry hisses softly and pulls back just a bit, not willing to let Russ use him to hurt himself. A sound of annoyance escapes his lover at the motion and then an impatient scoff, as if he somehow doesn’t believe Harry. “I’ve _killed_,” he snarled, as if it was a competition, and perhaps somehow it had turned into one, but that’s not what Harry had intended.

“You think I haven’t? That I don’t understand the horror of watching the light fade from someone’s eyes, knowing you extinguished it? The worst part--_the worst part_ is when they expect if of you, when they praise you for it, when what it all boils down to is ‘me’ or ‘him.’” Harry closes his eyes, doesn’t add that he sometimes wishes it had been him, that he’d gotten on a train in King’s cross. “Do you think I don’t know?” 

The rustle of a denial, of a head striking back and forth against the sheets again, but no words as he pulled his fingers out of Russ. It’s a bit less of a stretch than he usually gives his lover, but he thinks perhaps this is the way they both need it in this moment. Another whispered, wandless spell and his cock is nudging Russ’ entrance, his mouth whispering against the other man’s ear.

“I forgive you.” Russ shuddered beneath him and Harry pressed a soft kiss to the shell of his ear before he said it again, softly. “I forgive you.” He waited, impatient and trembling, until he felt the way Russ slowly unwound beneath him, and then he pressed forward, invading, possessing, _accepting_ the man in his arms.

He paused again, then, still half-waiting for the other shoe to drop, still expecting to find himself pulled away for being just as unworthy as Russ imagines himself to be, until a soft word spurred him forward. “Please. _Please_.”

When it is over, when they are spent and sweaty and curled tight against each other, and Harry can feel the heart-wrenching dampness of lingering tears on Russ’ cheekbones as he brushes kisses over them, he thinks that “please,” was his own forgiveness. “Meet me,” he whispered into the darkness. The words felt right as soon as he spoke them, and a strange almost thrumming sensation fluttered in his chest, urging him to continue. “Let me know you outside, in the light.” He takes in a deep breath, prepared and utterly willing to beg, when a quiet word breaks through his impending pleas.

“All right.” Russ voice sounded strange, thick and unsteady, but Harry was too overwhelmed by joy to truly notice and he let the feeling of utter bliss and contentment lull him to sleep in his lover’s arms.

When Harry opened his eyes to darkness, some indeterminate measure of minutes later, his arms were empty, stretched out, grasping, into the space beside him. The sheets were still warm, and the pillow beside his head slightly damp, but he was alone in the bed. 

Russ was gone.

~~~~~~~~~

Harry Potter had spent months in a forest, frozen and half-starved, waiting for an end to collecting horcruxes, had spent years living in a cupboard under the stairs, waiting for friends and family, for a purpose in life, and none of those seemed to compare to the last six days, eleven hours and twenty-seven minutes, waiting on an owl from Encounters.

Perhaps his ability to be patient was wearing thinner as he got older, or perhaps it was just the particular set of circumstances he found himself in at the moment, but Harry had never before found it so difficult to simply _wait_. He’d tried to restrain his panic at waking to find Russ gone, tried to tell himself that there was no reason he should have stayed, waiting around for Harry to wake up. He might have had an important meeting, after all, or perhaps an appointment with a healer. Heaven knew Harry wasn’t a child, didn’t need Russ to be there, watching him as he slept. But something about it left him wary and unsettled--they’d met for months, had never before parted without at least the briefest of good-byes. 

For three days Harry had forced himself to remain calm, reminded himself that he had managed to wait for Russ’ response owl before, told himself he could do it again. When the sun set on the fourth day, with no sign of either feathers or parchment at his windowsill, Harry began to worry. At first he considered that Russ might be injured or ill somewhere, with no one to check on him--he’d never gotten the impression that his lover was anything like a sociable man, and it weighed on him now, the thought that he might be somewhere, alone and hurting.

By the next morning different, new fears preyed on Harry’s mind after a night of recounting every word, every whisper and sound that had passed between them in their last meeting. “You sound just like Harry Potter,” echoed through his thoughts, over and over. Had Russ figured it out at last, what was _wrong_ with him? He caught sight of himself in the mirror that morning, purple shadows beneath his eyes to replace the fading color of finger-shaped bruises, the last lingering reminders of Russ’ touch littering his skin. He pressed hard against the ghost of hand splayed over the breadth of his hip, desperate for a moment to renew the bold color of it staining his pale skin, but his own touch is not the same. He is lacking, in the shadow of where Russ is not.

When the sixth morning arrives, bright and sunny and _awful_, Harry has circled around his list of fears completely, has listed every possible reason Russ has not sent his response owl, each more horrible and terrifying than the last. He was jittery and shaking as he sat down to pen a carefully worded letter to Encounters staff, hoping, at least, that they could calm his more fanciful notions. He sent the letter off with a whispered prayer to a deity he didn’t believe in and waited by the window for its return. 

The owl was swift, winging its way back with a response in just under an hour.

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_Encounters policy is not to interfere in match-response owls until a fortnight has passed, allowing witches and wizards plenty of time to consider their full measure of satisfaction or dissatisfaction in their meeting. If your partner, match selection #C9D34, has not responded with their owl after another 8 days our staff team will fully investigate the matter. _

_In the meantime, should you find yourself unsatisfied and wish to initiate an additional match, respond presently and a new partner will be selected for you. _

_Cordially,_  
Encounters Match-Relations Chief Officer  
Tim Curry 

Harry shooed the bird away from the window, sending it off without even so much as a nibble of a treat, and crumpled the letter in disgust. The thought of a “new match” left his stomach twisting unpleasantly and, instead of putting any of his worries to rest, he found he had a new one: What if Russ wanted to “initiate an additional match?”

A voice in the back of his mind, one that sounded remarkably like Hermione, spoke, firmly pressing down the panic that threatened. Eight days was a long time, surely Russ would respond, it said. Harry took a deep breath. He could be patient. 

Or so he thought--half a day more passed and he was jumping out of his skin. Every sound was an owl at the window, every song on the radio or show on the telly reminded him of Russ and his voice in the dark, agreeing to meet, or of the emptiness of the bed next to him as he woke up alone in the dark. Each morning the bleary-eyed moment just before waking was adulterated with lingering dreams of his lover, still shrouded in mystery, and each evening was shadowed with the anxiety of why Russ hadn’t owled yet.

Harry tried to distract himself with whatever activity he could think of. He played quidditch with anyone who was willing, and when people weren’t willing--such as, for some reason, the middle of the night--he went flying by himself. One night he hadn’t even realized he’d been flying for hours until the sunrise began to light up the sky. He visited Ron and Hermione and spent hours playing with Rosie, until even she grew tired of his seemingly endless nervous energy, pushing him away from her tummy at the end of his visit with a fussy cry.

That avenue exhausted, he stopped over to see Luna, who was her usual unnaturally calm self about the situation, once he explained it to her, assuring him that “a man can never step in the same river twice,” whatever that meant. She advised rosemary, and something about baking bread at dawn. Though she provided no explanation, Harry did so--anything to momentarily take his mind off things. On Sunday he turned up at Hogwarts to visit Neville, throwing himself into a new herbology greenhouse project to help his friend and then starting one of his own with the fervor of a madman. When he emerged from his gardening fugue he found himself in possession of a fine-looking greenhouse that should have taken three days to build and instead had taken six hours. The problem with gardening, of course, was that at a certain point one had to let the plants grow.

Eventually, however, he ran out of activities to occupy him, and friends willing to put up with his over-wrought state, and he found himself with his own thoughts for company once again. He put quill to parchment half a dozen times trying to formulate a letter to Encounters that asked the wizard in charge to change his mind and allow him to contact Russ. It was difficult to find phrasing that didn’t make him sound like an absolute lovesick lunatic. In fact, it was impossible. Each piece of parchment ended up crumpled up or hurled into the fireplace, quills snapped or tossed across the room in frustration, until, suddenly it occurred to him that he was trying to write the wrong person entirely.

A handful of floo powder later, he was poking head and shoulders through the fireplace and into Hermione’s office. “‘Mione! Are you busy?”

“Harry!” She looked distinctly nervous at the sight of him. “What are you doing here?”

Harry winced, abruptly realizing that perhaps the middle of the work day wasn’t the best time to ask his friends for favors, despite how certain he was that they could help them. “Sorry, you’re busy. I’ll floo you later.”

It was Hermione’s turn to wince and she shook her head quickly, waved her hand in a ‘come through’ gesture. “No, no, it’s fine. I have a moment. Come through, we’ll talk about whatever is bothering you.”

Harry grimaced, realizing he’d set himself up. Of course Hermione would want to talk about what was going on, even if he hadn’t driven her half-crazy over the course of the last several days. He stepped through the fire, staggering on the uneven hearth, and brushed the ashes off his shoulders. “S’pose I haven’t been very subtle that something’s bothering me.”

Hermione smiled. “Harry, brother of my heart, dearest of friends--you wouldn’t be acquainted with subtle if it hit you with a brick.” She gestured at the plush chair across from her desk. “Tell me.”

He did. Well, he told her the highlights. Hermione already knew how...attached he’d been getting to Russ. And without getting too much into detail, he told her how they'd left things at their last encounter. As he talked, Hermione’s face grew more sympathetic, but also more...sad. As if she had terrible news she was going to have to break to him. 

“And now,” he said, finishing his story, “I have to wait three more days until they’re going to “look into the matter”, whatever that means.” He drummed his nails along Hermione’s desk tapping them in rhythm with his foot. “And I’m going absolutely spare!”

“Harry,” she said, then hesitated. “Well, it sounds like perhaps Russ doesn’t...feel the same way.”

“What do you mean,” Harry asked, eyebrows scrunched together.

Hermione reached over and enclosed Harry’s rapidly moving hand with her own. He settled a bit, but her worried look was unnerving. “Perhaps you and Russ had quite a bit of fun together, but he’s decided...that he’s not looking for anything more.”

Harry stared at her for a long moment, uncomprehending. “He said--he said, ‘all right.’ I asked him to meet, and he said ‘_all right_.’”

Hermione winced, whether from the words themselves or Harry’s newfound volume, he wasn’t sure, and gently squeezed the hand caught in her own. “Sometimes, in the heat of the moment, a wizard might say something--”

“No.” Harry yanked his hand away, furiously shaking his head in denial. “No, you’re _wrong_,” he said, words and breath trying to choke him, even as his own mind gently reminded him that he’d considered the very same thing.

“Harry, please, I understand that it’s a painful thing to consider, but you have to face reality.”

“_No,_” he snapped again, and the picture frames on Hermione’s bookshelves rattled ominously as he shot to his feet. “He’ll owl me. It’s all just--some misunderstanding,” he said firmly, pulling a thin veneer of calm around him as he practically lunged for the escape of the fireplace. “Thanks for the chat, Hermione,” he muttered, grabbing the floo powder and tossing it into the flames. “_Harry Potter’s cottage!_” He stepped through with the sound of her voice crying out his name.

Harry’s nervous energy abated a bit, taken over by the staunch resolve that an owl _would_ come. He passed the remaining three days mostly in solitude, cleaning, running errands, flying in the evenings and watching the clock. The morning of the eighth day arrived with no hint of an owl, and abject terror finally penetrated the ludicrous belief that Russ’ response would magically appear, telling him when they should meet. Harry sat down at his desk with every intention of sending off another letter of his own, fear a tight vice wound around his chest. 

He begged the proprietor to put him in contact with his match. He cited the “unusual length of response time”, referencing the fourteen day policy and might have also babbled something about making sure he was all right, alive and safe. There was probably also the chance he’d included something about how much he missed Russ, but as the letter was written entirely during what he thought was an out of body experience, he couldn’t be sure. He didn’t bother rereading what he’d written, merely sealed it and went to the window to call his owl.

When he pulled the shutters open, however, he found a large, familiar brown owl waiting for him on the sill. Harry took the letter, the owl flying off without a backward glance--likely still affronted by his treatment of it the last time--and opened up the parchment. The message inside was so short and simple that he didn’t understand at first.

_Encounter partner #C9D34 has declined any additional meetings, and requests no further contact at this time._

Harry read the single line a dozen times before comprehension dawned on him, and a cold, sickly feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. “Oh,” the sound slips out from between stiff lips. “I guess ‘Mione was right.”

It’s the last clear thing he remembers for days. There was a fog that descended over him and his thoughts, a haze that left him numb and cold. He gets out of bed in the morning, but can hardly manage the energy for more. When he remembered he made himself cups of tea, but most went unfinished, littered around his house, half-drunk and mouldering in the days that follow. He manages a few bites of toast here and there, when he thinks of it, which isn’t often, until the bread too gathers mold, and then he resorts to things he can salvage from the pantry--tinned soup one day, a sleeve of biscuits the next. 

If his Aunt Petunia could see his living habits she would have an apoplectic fit and, in the brief moments the fog clears he half-wishes he could show her, his brief revenge for his unhappy childhood. The fog never lifts for long, though, and Harry knows he’s missed things he shouldn’t have--floo calls, Ron and Hermione’s worried voices drift to him from the fireplace now and again, but he never bothers to leave his messy nest of blankets on the couch to reassure them. It’s too much effort. He misses owls, too, he supposes, though he’s never had much correspondence. A letter here and there from various charity organizations that want his help, quickly dashed off invitations to the burrow, and entirely too briefly, his owls from Encounters. 

It was his usual sort of luck at work, then, when the fog lifted long enough for him to notice a familiar brown owl rapping at the pane of his window. He stared for a moment and blinked a few times to clear his vision, locking gazes with the owl long enough for the creature to grow annoyed with him and rap harder at the glass, demanding entrance. He had no idea what day it was, had no idea what the letter might be about, when Russ wants nothing to do with him, but he knew he had to read it. He opened the window.

This letter was even shorter than the last, but no less confusing.

_Mr. Potter:_

_Please report to Encounters as soon as possible to resolve a matter of some urgency._

He Apparated without thought, certainly without any amount of deliberation. Hermione would scold him until she turned blue, if she’d had any idea what kind of risk he’d just taken. Between one moment and the next, Harry found himself in the Encounters waiting area having made absolutely no attempt to make himself even vaguely presentable. Crumbs still clung to his two (or was it three?) day old shirt and pajama bottoms, and his hair was half matted down and half sticking straight up as he burst into the proprietor's office. 

"Ah, Mr. Potter, thank you for arriving so quickly. I first--," he cut off his statement as soon as he looked up from his desk. His gaze raked up and down Harry quickly and then he looked down at the papers in front of him again, clearing his throat. 

"Well," he continued in dismay, once more looking Harry over with a slight grimace, "perhaps this is worse than I thought. These types of things can be very dangerous."

"What types of things?" Harry asked, still slightly dazed from his arrival. He obediently sank down in the seat the proprietor gestured towards. 

"Bonds, of course, as I'm sure you're well aware. It is a tricky thing, uncommon for them to develop here, but it does happen from time to time; compatibility magic being what it is." He flipped through the stacks of paperwork on his desk. "Naturally, Encounters can’t be held liable. These things happen and you did sign the paperwork indicating that you were aware of the potential consequences."

Harry had absolutely no idea what this man was talking about, and what it had to do with him, or Russ, or Russ’....rejection letter. He swallowed down the sadness that came with that thought. "Of course," he said faintly, waiting for his brain to catch up with the conversation and hoping the wizard across from him would continue talking and shed some light on the matter.

"Very good, sir. First, before we continue, I _would_ like to formally apologize for the delay in informing you. There was an error in our spell alert department and we weren't made aware of the bond formation. Our spellcasters only found out this morning, after the unfortunate incident involving your former match-partner."

"Incident?" Harry's blood ran cold, for the first time making sense of any part of the conversation. "What? What happened to Russ, is he all right?"

"Oh, of course. It's only a very minor sting when the magic of the room forcibly separates two clients. The same system in place that protects against non-consensual and ill-intentioned acts." He chuckled. "Bit of a shock--"

Harry's brain sputtered to a standstill again after the words 'non-consensual'. "What did the other wizard do? Are you sure Russ isn't hurt? Did you have the man arrested?" Harry asked, fists clenched and prepared to stand up and fight the aggressor himself. 

The wizard simply raised an eyebrow and clicked his tongue. "Testy thing, these bonds. As I said, it was merely the presence of a soul-bonded individual in the room. We do have a reputation to uphold here at Encounters. Imagine the bad press, if married partners chose our rooms to cat around in." He shook his head and shuffled his paperwork again. "Well, of course you'll be wanting to look into a dissolution, yes? I have--"

"I'm--sir, I'm sorry, but at any point are you going to start making sense?"

The proprietor stared silently and gave a long, slow blink as he appeared to absorb the question. "Did you need some clarification?" he asked slowly, as if speaking to a very small child.

Harry had been emotionally through the wringer these past few weeks, not to mention these past few _minutes_, and as his thoughts were finally starting to clear, he found he’d had quite enough. "What is going on?" he demanded. "What bond? What are you talking about?"

"Your bond. The bond that formed with your encounter partner, #C9D34, after your--" here he glanced at the paper on his desk, "twenty-third encounter? Unusually high number, although that does explain the bond."

"A bond? Between me and Russ? I mean, uh, #C9D34?" He swallowed thickly. "Bonded like--like _married_?” Harry swallowed hard against the lump in his throat and felt his knees tremble and the room swirled around him, his shoulders starting to sway as he tried to steady himself. He was glad he was already seated or he might have tumbled to the floor. How had he not realized? How had neither of them realized? And now ...Russ wouldn’t see him. Harry felt the familiar stirrings of the despair that had kept him in a daze most of the last--week? Two weeks?--and something ...something _else_. 

A small flame of anger sparked beneath the despair. Russ must have had some idea---he was so clever. Why did he _leave_. “Where--where _is_ he?”

"Damned if I know. We were able to sort out the matter right away, of course, but when I told him I was calling for you, so you could meet and settle it however you wished, he disapparated right out of my office!” The wizard tsked and shook his head, clearly still irritated by Russ’ exit, whether his sheer nerve or by his utter _uncouthness_, Harry couldn’t tell. Despite the bewilderment that still held him tightly in its grip, Harry couldn’t help but muster a small smile. That sounded like Russ, alright. 

“I recommend looking into a dissolution, of course,” he continued. “Doubtless, you’re already feeling the ill effects of an unfulfilled bond. His information,” he said and handed Harry a neatly folded piece of parchment. “I trust I can put the matter to rest now, Mr. Potter? You’ll take it from here?”

“Yes. Yes, of course,” said Harry, sitting forward to take the parchment, bemused by how easily the information had suddenly come to him. Hesitantly, half afraid that someone would snatch it away from him again, or that someone else would burst forward and claim they were playing a prank, Harry unfolded the note. A hundred thoughts rushed through his mind at the sight of those few boldly black lines on the page. 

He thought of Russ’ talk of having run into someone he’d “wronged” in the war. He wonders now who it must have been, knows his list of enemies likely as long as Harry’s, probably longer. He remembers again, suddenly, the way Russ had gently put his broken pieces back together, had known just what was bothering Harry when he’d handled him so roughly. How many times, Harry wondered, had he cried out for help the same way and been ignored, to be so absolutely certain of how to help Harry. The rough path of scarring across the delicate flesh of his throat and the way their noses bumped together with each kiss, all hints to his lover’s identity, all lost to Harry through the indiscriminate blanket of the notice-me-not spell. The blend of herbs that Harry couldn’t differentiate between and the sharp scent of preservation chemicals he should have known.

“You sound just like Harry Potter,” whispers again through his mind and Harry closes his eyes against the truth of the parchment in front of him, against the uncaring way the notice-me-not charm has broken and left him suddenly, terribly able to connect every last dot. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes again. He wasn’t a coward.

Harry didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as he stared, unblinking, at the neat and unassuming black ink on the parchment in his hands. The maddening, infuriating cause of so very many of his problems:

_Severus Snape_

Of course it was.

That bastard.

~~~~~~~~~

Harry was not particularly proud of the first owl that he sent to Snape. It read only, _You absolute bastard! Get over here and talk to me **right now!**_. It was just as well that he didn’t think it through further or he might have even sent a howler. He’d never sent a howler in his life, but if anyone deserved one it was Severus Snape. The second and third letters were hardly better, but by the fourth letter he was much more coherent, polite, and--dare he say it?-- persuasive.

Oh, who was he kidding? The fourth letter was just shy of begging. _Severus, please,_ it said. _We’re bonded and I care about you. I want to see you. And if you don’t get your arse over here or at least respond to me, I’m going to track you down and hex you into a body bind until you speak to me! Won’t you at least tell me what’s wrong with you!?_

He’d considered adding “you bastard” again, but thought better of it. More than three times and it would probably begin to lose its power. 

Several hours of seething later, but still much sooner than he had truly expected, he received a response-- a short scribble that was written with such force it nearly tore through the paper:

_NO_.

He sank down heavily into the chair at his kitchen table and stared down at the parchment laying open on the wooden surface. It was a clear, unmistakable dismissal and wearily Harry propped his head up in the cup of his hands, gaze tracing over the black lines of those two letters. He took in the indent Severus’ quill had left behind, wondering what emotion had driven him to press so deeply. He waited there, for a long moment, expecting rage to erupt, hot and wild in his chest, but as the seconds ticked past he just felt...hollow.

There had been a momentary relief in firing off angry one-sentence letters, one right after another, but he’d known all along that it wouldn’t get him anywhere. And now what? He didn’t know the first place to start in convincing Snape that they needed each other. He traced the length of the _N_ on the paper, trying to be logical and consider things from Rus--Sna--_Severus’_?-- point of view, but if he was being honest, he was still too focused on his own feelings, particularly the hurt that still sat aching in his chest. There was no way around it, Severus had broken his heart. He’d walked away from Harry without a word, left him without any hint of explanation.

He hadn’t understood why to begin with, but now his confusion was even more jumbled. Had he left because of him, because he was “Harry Potter: Hero of the Wizarding World?” Or worse, was it because just Harry didn’t measure up to what Severus wanted, expected from him? He’d felt secure in Russ’ understanding of him, right up until the moment he’d disappeared. Maybe Severus was upset, embarrassed? Did he think that Harry would make fun of him? That it had been some type of elaborate joke? He’d believed the worst of Harry before, but surely it couldn’t be a concern for Rus--_Severus_ now? 

They’d grown close in the past months. Harry had been more than halfway to falling completely in love with the man, sight unseen. Now, well...the knowledge that the man he’d admired from a distance, a man he’d seen the mettle of, known the depth of his sacrifices, sacrifices he’d made _for Harry_, and the man he’d fallen for blindly, who had held him together when he was shaking apart, who showed kindness in small, peculiar ways--the knowledge that they were one and the same? That was something more than worth fighting for. Harry took a deep breath and gathered his resolve. He was going to do whatever it took to get Severus back.

Taking several minutes to gather his thoughts, he finally set his quill to parchment and poured out his heart one more time for Severus. They’d spoken of it, in brief whispers in that dark room, but Harry filled in the blanks and the missing pieces he’d left out to keep his secrets. He wrote about how lonely it had been for him the past several years, how hard it was to find someone to love and all the embarrassments and missteps and heartbreak along the way. He wrote about what it felt like at their first meeting, how surprised he’d been by the connection that developed between them. 

Line after line, page after page, he detailed how he felt about the man he’d fallen in love with--the man he knew Severus was--and what he wanted for the two of them. Then, because he had no way of knowing if Snape had ever read the many, many letters he’d sent after the war, he brought up what he had written in those, too. Harry gratefully thanked Severus for everything he had done for him, for the side of the light. He wrote the same words he’d unknowingly spoken to him at their last meeting, that Severus Snape was the bravest man he’d ever known. 

And at the end of the letter, several pages long by now, he asked again, so earnestly and sincerely he thought Severus would have to be heartless to ignore it: _Why did you leave? Please, Severus, why would you throw away what we have?_ The quill dripped ink onto the parchment as he paused there for a moment, wondering if he even needed to add the next part. Surely Severus knew what he’d done? And yet he pressed the nib down, scrawling out the stark words, the accusation bold and black against a backdrop of white. _You broke my heart._. Feeling like all the life had drained out of him and onto the letter, he signed it-- _Yours, Harry_\--and called for his owl. After he sent it away he trudged down the hall and collapsed onto his bed. With any luck he’d have his answer tomorrow morning.

Later the next afternoon, after his owl had returned relieved of its burden but with no return correspondence, right around the time Harry had finally mustered up the energy to try to just track the stubborn bastard down and show up on his doorstep, an irritated looking gray owl rapped on the windowpane.

Harry collected the letter the owl offered and was at least pleased to note that it was too thick to be a single page, but not thick enough to be his own letter returned to him--that had happened with the first few letters he sent after the war. When they’d stopped coming back to him, no sign of being opened, he’d wondered if Snape had just tossed them straight into the fire to spare his owl the hassle of a trip. 

Harry took a deep breath and cracked the seal on the letter, preparing himself for whatever he was going to find inside. Something angry? Some final rejection insisting that he would never see Harry again for the rest of their natural lives? A dismissive and cruel accounting of why Snape would never in a million years be with him, regardless of what Russ might have said or done? A dozen possibilities ran through his mind, each more upsetting than the last.

What he saw, however, when he flipped open the parchment was not anything like what he had expected. There was a smudge at the top of the page that Harry had seen often enough when he crafted a letter. Severus had written something and rewritten it over several times before he had decided what he wanted to say, or at least how he’d wanted to say it. His name, apparently, had given Severus some small measure of trouble. Written, spelled off the parchment, then written again, the process repeating often enough that he'd left the spell residue behind before he’d settled on a simple address of “_Potter_.”

What followed that was just as surprising: A neatly written list, in that familiar cramped handwriting, that seemed to detail exactly how Severus would ruin Harry’s life, if Severus “ _allowed their ill-conceived rendezvous to continue_” it would “_destroy his reputation_,” apparently and “_alienate him from his friends and any other ‘decent people’ that he was acquainted with._” Harry read the words again, wondering how Severus could believe such a thing, and then remembering that final meeting with Russ at Encounters. Severus Snape was almost never seen out in the wizarding world, ostracized and barely tolerated by the general public, wizards and witches on both sides of the war, despite Harry’s best efforts. 

Harry understood, suddenly, the answer to the question he’d been asking himself since finding out that he was bonded-- How could Russ, _Severus_ have gone back to Encounters, how could he have tried to initiate another match? How could he not, with the loneliness of such an existence? Harry looked at the list in his hands again. Every day he carried on with Severus, it asserted, he would be setting himself up for “_even further heartbreak (your words)_.” The parenthetical squeezed in next to the words, as if Severus wanted to make absolutely sure Harry knew he wasn’t suggesting anything as ridiculous as Harry truly being in love with him. Even still, Harry thought, despite what was the least happy life Harry could trouble himself to imagine, Severus was trying to save him.

He continued reading the list as it ticked further down the page and as he reached the end Harry had the sudden certainty that this was the result of Severus scrawling out some sort of pros and cons list at home. He was familiar enough with the process, Hermione having forced him and Ron into doing so more than once during their school years to help them make some tricky decision or another. Severus had clearly done the same to make Harry’s decision for him, helpfully sent along his exhaustive list of cons to underscore his point.

Briefly Harry wondered what the pros must have been--_not as annoying as at Hogwarts? a rollicking good fuck?_\--but, no, Severus wouldn’t have hesitated to send something as inane as that along. It’s telling, Harry thinks, and finds he very much would like to know what Severus would have written beneath a “pros” heading. Instead what he gets is a few short lines at the very bottom of the page, declaring that he is “_poison_” and that if Harry “_had any brains in his head at all, he’d cease communication immediately and take up elsewhere._” He’d handily included the contact information for a bond dissolution service as a postscript.

Garbage, Harry thought scornfully, and tossed the letter aside with annoyance. Pure idiocy. How could Severus think that any of those things mattered to him? Harry would be the first to admit that Severus’ existence by himself was a lonely one, but a burden shared was a burden halved, and Harry had no worry that those who loved him would give him up because he had the bad form to fall in love with Severus Snape. Well, he amended thoughtfully, at least not after they’d adjusted to the idea. 

It was frustrating, that Severus would think that Harry would give up the chance for them to be happy together for reasons that were so inconsequential. Wasn’t he supposed to be the clever one? Luckily for both of them, Harry had never claimed to be clever. What he did have, however, were a couple of brilliant best friends.

Harry was surprised at how pleased his friends looked to see him, until he realized that the last time he’d really spoken to either of them had been weeks ago-- that disastrous meeting in Hermione’s office. She must have thought he’d lost the plot, he’d certainly been acting like it, suffering from an unpleasant mixture of extreme worry and an unfulfilled bond. Ron practically heaved him through the floo as he poked his head in to ask for a meeting.

Settling gratefully onto their sofa, the baby plopped into his lap to hold him in place, Harry filled them in on what had taken place, ducking his head in remorse when it came time to apologize for his apparent mania, and then carefully laying out the rest of his story. He held back telling them “Russ’” identity until there was nothing else he could add to his story and then he steeled himself for the inevitable initial explosion.

“It’s Snape,” Harry said and waited with bated breath. 

“That’s great, mate,” said Ron, and Harry had to pause for a moment, blinking dumbly. He had been prepared to defend himself, not for immediate acceptance and certainly not from Ron “Gives Ginger Temperament a Bad Name” Weasley.

“What?” asked Hermione and Harry at the exact same time.

Ron just looked back and forth between them, apparently bewildered by their confusion. “Oh, what--we’re all just going to pretend Harry wasn’t entirely too invested in clearing Snape’s name? He sent him owls for a solid year after the war!”

Harry ducked his head at the entirely astute observation. He hadn’t realized that his friends were aware of just how many letters he had, in fact, sent Snape after the war ended, so desperate to talk with him and constantly being rebuffed. He’d finally given up, of course, but he supposed the...intensity of his defence of the man had never quite worn off. And knowing that he and Russ were one and the same, now, a lot of those feelings were resurfacing and starting to come together, leaving Harry feeling tumultously off-balance.

“Well, it isn’t that great,” Harry said glumly, reminded now of how stubbornly Severus had ignored that wave of letters after the war. “We’ve soul-bonded, because apparently that’s a thing that can just happen sometimes, and he refuses to see me!”

“Why?” asked Hermione. “He must now how dangerous it is to keep going without a soul-bond either fulfilled or dissolved! Your emotions can get out of control, there’s a constant longing to be near the other person, you can sink into a deep depression…” Hermione trailed off and made a face, apparently reviewing the scene from her office in a new light. Harry made a face of his own.

‘Yeah,” he said testily, trying not to think of the scene he’d made, or the earnest way his friend had tried to let him down gently. “I know.”

“So what’s his problem then?” asked Ron, suddenly flushed with outrage Harry had expected moments ago. “He thinks he’s too good for you or something? As if he could do better!”

“He thinks he’s not good enough at all, that’s the problem,” Harry said with a tired sigh. “That he would ruin my life, that he’s no good for me-- that’s what he thinks. He said it would destroy my reputation if anyone saw us walking down the street together, let alone being bonded.”

“Well, what do you think, Harry?” asked Ron, and Hermione nodded along, adding. “Do you agree with him?”

“No! Of course not!” He snapped the denial with conviction, shaking his head. “Not at all. The “reputation” he’s so worried about isn’t _me_ anyway! He’s a berk, but if he pulled his head out of his arse he’d realize I love him as much as he loves me!” He paused, shocked at his words before he realized they were true. 

“He loves me,” Harry murmured again, weighing the words against his tongue. Of course Severus loved him, why bother with trying to protect him this way if he felt anything else? “He loves me.” He repeated firmly and grinned, straightening his shoulders. “He loves me and I love him and I don’t care what anyone says!”

“Well, then,” Ron said, a smile twitching at his lips. “Good on you, mate.” His smile faded and his expression turned thoughtful, an edge to it that Harry had seen in countless chess matches. “But we all know he’s stubborn. Seems to me that Snape is never going to give up on his argument--unless…”

“Unless?” Hermione prompted, a frown tugging at her brow as she tried to follow her husband’s line of thought. “Oh! Of course.” She smiled, the confusion clearing from her face.

“Unless _what_?” Harry demanded, bewildered by the twin grins now leering at him.

“Unless you take it away, of course,” Ron said smugly.

“He doesn’t want to be the one to ruin your reputation,” prompted Hermione, lifting Rose out of his lap where she had spent the conversation interjecting here and there with happy shrieks that had gone entirely unheeded by the three adults--after Harry had overstimulated her at his last visit, it was probably just as well. It took several seconds for him to realize that she’d been removed so he could leave, and several more for him to realize _why_.

“He doesn’t want to ruin my reputation...so _I’ll have to_,” he blurted suddenly, the plan unfolding in his mind with clarity.

“Then you know what to do, mate,” Ron said with a smile. “It’s going to be a big gesture.”

“A gesture that’s showy and brash and decidedly unsubtle-- what else would any self-respecting Gryffindor do?” Harry asked, his lips widening into a grin. 

“Best of luck, mate!” Ron called, but Harry was already stepping through the floo to set his plan into motion.

Unsurprisingly, it didn’t take very long at all to sell his exclusive story to The Daily Prophet. The mention of a prime revelation in the life of Harry Potter at the news desk and one quick interview with an increasingly wide eyed witch and her dict-a-quill later and it was done. An owl with the advanced copy winged its way to Harry only hours later and he stared down at the front page headline with a certain sense of accomplishment: _Boy Who Lived bonded with reclusive former Death Eater Severus Snape!_

He carefully clipped the entire article, folded it so the headline was facing outward, and attached a brief message: _Checkmate, arsehole. Love, Harry_

Now all he had to do was wait.

~~~~~~~~~

Harry was seated comfortably in an armchair that he’d conjured in his foyer, leisurely reading all about his love life in the Daily Prophet Special Edition when his afternoon was interrupted by the sound of a single loud bang on the door, which swung open at the touch of its attacker. He’d taken a slight gamble, assuming Severus would come to his front step, rather than flooing in, but it seemed he’d positioned himself correctly.

Harry looked up, smiling pleasantly, and lifted his cup towards the fuming man in his doorway in acknowledgement.

“Welcome,” Harry said, not making even the slightest attempt to keep the smugness out of his voice.

Severus’ anger was momentarily disrupted by his confusion, his fist still held in the air against the absence of the closed door. “Why did the wards let me in?”

“Oh, you’re added onto my floo allowances as well,” Harry said calmly, pausing to take a small sip of his tea before continuing in the silence of Severus’ bewilderment. “Bondmate.”

The word was apparently just the prick Severus’ anger needed to erupt again.

“Of all the absolute imbecilic, dunderheaded, brash--” His words started quietly, but were quickly headed toward shouting as he gestured to the newspaper page half-crumpled in his grip.

“You might as well come inside if you’re going to shout a while,” Harry interrupted evenly, setting his tea aside and gesturing for him to do so. He was surprised at how easily he managed to derail Severus again, although the other man recovered quickly enough.

“I have no intention of staying,” Severus snapped brusquely, inhaling visibly as if he intended to begin his rant again.

“Fine by me.” He kept his tone just as calm as when he’d begun, having no intention of letting the other man get started again. “Shall we have our argument right out on the front lawn, then? Photographers usually set up in those bushes to the right of the property line, so they’ll have an excellent view.”

Severus turned and glared suspiciously at the bushes in question, which rustled obviously under his gaze. For a moment Harry thought he might start shooting hexes before he reluctantly moved inside. Harry swung the door shut behind him with a short wave of his wand, and fixed an innocent smile on his face and tried to be certain that his thoughts were clear. Those shrubs held only a rather anxious squirrel, Harry’s wards holding a much wider area than necessary for just such a reason. The last thing Harry needed was a camp of photographers just outside his front door, able to harass even the most innocent of visitors, but what Severus didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

Severus stared him down, clearly finding fault in the innocence of his expression, but Harry had plenty of experience with that angry glare from his school days and was surprised to find that he could tell there was more behind that dark gaze, some deeper emotion that Harry couldn’t quite parse. When he finally spoke Severus didn’t sound that angry at all, in fact, just defeated. He sounded exactly like Russ had, whenever he’d declined to see Harry outside of Encounters or when he had refused to commit to an additional meeting. 

This _was_ the Russ who had been so non-commital in the dark, Harry reminded himself sharply, giving himself a mental shake as he focused back on what Severus was saying.

“This foolishness can’t persist,” he said wearily and Harry felt a bolt of anger fly through him at the same argument dragged out again.

“What foolishness is that, exactly?” He ground out the question, trying to wrestle his temper back under control. If he’d learned nothing else in Occlumency lessons all those years ago it was that Snape always had the upper hand when he was angry. The excess emotion had to go somewhere, however, and Harry pushed himself out of the armchair, stalking toward Severus. He knew it was a foolish thing to do, making the other man feel as if he were cornered, but he couldn’t help himself. 

“You still haven’t told me, you know, why you left.” He stopped abruptly unsure of his welcome, second guessing the truth he’d been so sure of settled in front of Ron and Hermione’s fire. He presses on, unable to move any way but forward. “Did you leave because you figured out that I was Harry Potter or was it just that you were afraid I really do love you?” The question skirts dangerously close to calling Severus a coward and Harry regrets that, because he knows how brave the man standing in front of him with narrowing his eyes in fury truly is, but Severus has been running from him almost since the beginning and he can’t handle it any longer.

Severus snarls at the perceived stab of his question, and hisses as if hit by a barbed weapon instead of words. “You seemed certain enough about how I felt in that article of yours. Is this why you couldn’t keep anyone before? You just tell them how they feel about you and threw a temper tantrum when they had the _temerity_ to leave?”

Harry sucked in a breath at the cutting cruelty of Severus’ comment, and had to use every bit of his self-control not to fire back with something equally hurtful. He’d hit below the belt first, and if anything the intensity of Severus’ remark made it all the more clear they were both treading on thin ice with each other. He took a few deep breaths and got ahead of his ire. Severus may have been right about at least one thing in his list, and that was how hurtful he could be. But Harry loved him, and the way to break past those defenses wasn’t going to be in trading barbs and picking wounds. He remembered a lesson Russ had taught him once in the dark, about asking for what he wanted. What he needed.

“Please, Russ,” Harry said, as gently as he could, and Severus flinched at the sudden change in his voice and face. “Do you want me to beg?’, 

Disarmed and clearly uncomfortable with the direction the conversation had suddenly turned, Severus opened and closed his mouth several times before finally saying, weakly, “Begging? From you? Well that would certainly be a nice change of pace.” It was intended as a joke, but the words fell flat. If anything, a reminder of the erotic implications of begging shifted the tone even further from the snarling fury of a few moments prior. 

“I will,” Harry said, ignoring the attempt at humour. Harry was suddenly absolutely certain he’d do anything to keep Severus in his life, do whatever it took to show him how perfect they could be together, to let go of their past animosities. Harry dropped to his knees and spread his arms as if to show that he was defenseless, and Severus’ eyes widened in shock. “If this is all it takes to keep you in my life, then gladly. Please, Severus, stay with me. I’ll do _anything_.”

“Don’t--don’t make promises you don’t intend to keep,” Severus said, backing up a few steps from where Harry had sunk to his knees on the floor. His face was pale as he stared down at where Harry knelt. His hand seemed to move on its own, restless, inching forward towards Harry and then pulling back, as if he were afraid to touch. 

“I’ve already promised--didn’t I tell you I’d keep you close, Sev’rus?” He husked the name softly and slowly, slowly, afraid to startle the other man into any new action, pushed himself to his feet and took a careful step forward. “All you have to do is let me.” He raised his hand and held it out palm up, silently offering himself up again.

“What--- why would you possibly want-- Potter, you _know_ me. I haven’t changed, I’m still your nasty old Potions professor.” He made no move to take Harry’s hand as he continued to offer his protest, but his gaze lingered on it as he spoke, as if mesmerized by those reaching fingers. 

“You’re right. I do know you. I know you are brave and loyal and good. I know you have a selflessness you like to keep hidden, and I know you do the right thing, even when it’s hard--even when it’s the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do.” He inched closer, ever so slightly, as if approaching a wary deer. “I know you’re cruel and angry and bitter and nasty, but I know that isn’t all of you,” he continued, as was met with the barest huff of a scoff. “I know you’re brilliant and witty and one of the cleverest people I’ve ever met. I know what you sound like when you laugh, and I want to hear it every day if I can. I know you are lonely, and that you’ve always wanted someone to love you.”

“Severus,” he said gently, smiling, as if explaining the matter to a child. “_I_ love you.”

Severus shook his head, still staring at Harry’s hand, disbelief written clear on his features. “You love _me_?” His voice was small and lost and Harry couldn’t help the soft chuckle that escaped him.

“Severus, you stubborn idiot,” He said gently, stepping forward to take the hand that wouldn’t take his. He squeezed it firmly in his own, relieved to feel cool fingers clutch at him. “I _adore_ you. I love you more than anything. I’ll spend every day of my life proving it, if you need me to.”

Harry bridged the final few inches between them and pressed his lips to Severus’. They parted immediately before moving back against his with an increasing passion. Harry lifted his free hand up to cup Severus’ cheek briefly before sliding back until it tangled in the long hair falling forward. He deepened the kiss until he heard the slight whimpers of pleasure escaping from someone's mouth, although they were so soft Harry couldn’t be sure whose they were, and finally, gently, pulled away with one last brush of their lips. 

“You really love me?” Severus speaks before Harry has fully pulled back, so close that he can practically taste the words, and still doesn’t sound entirely convinced. The tone is dazed, almost dreamy, and he certainly doesn’t sound _less_ certain of him, Harry thinks, lips quirking into smile. If it takes kissing Severus until he believes in the truth of Harry’s feelings, then that’s what he’ll do. There are much worse fates, he knows, than being condemned to kiss the man you love for the rest of your life.

“I really do.” He brushes their lips together again. “I already learned you in the dark,” Harry says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Now let me _know_ you in the light.”

Severus allowed Harry to lead him from the entryway toward the back of the cottage, silently agreeing to the mortifying ordeal of being _known_. As they walked towards the bedroom, Harry took the opportunity to use his new favorite word as often as possible, stopping every few feet to undo a button or loosen a belt, commenting all the while. “I love how you dress,” he said as he started at Severus’ outer robes, working his way down the seemingly endless line of buttons. “I love how you look in black, although I want to know what you look like in every other color too.” 

He continued with another stop a few bare feet further, removing his own shirt with a swift carelessness that he hadn’t shown Severus’ clothing, trembling in the process as Severus reached out to run his fingers along the bare skin of his chest. “I love your hands,” Harry said, pleased by the attention, “and I love when you touch me.” 

“I love your voice,” Harry said when Severus gave a slight murmur of surprise as Harry’s hands reached the fastening of his trousers farther still on their path. He dropped a light kiss to the jut of his adam’s apple and was rewarded with the vibration of another noise beneath his lips. 

When they finally pushed into the door to Harry’s bedroom, a dozen whispered praises and nearly every article of clothing divested later, the brightness of the afternoon light pouring through the windows made them pause for a moment and blink at the sudden change from the gloom of the hallway. 

“How many windows do you possibly need in a bedroom,” Severus remarked with a grumble and a slight note of concern. “Not used to performing under a spotlight, obviously.” 

“It’s perfect,” Harry said. “I can see you. All of you.” He moved to press light kisses against the hard line of his jaw then shifted further down to cover over the raised discoloration of scar tissue with his lips and tongue. 

“So certain you want to?” Severus asked, looking off to the side in discomfort. 

“I love this scar,” Harry murmured, lips still brushing over the ruined flesh. “It reminds me of how strong you are. How many struggles you went through and still came out on top.”

When Severus didn’t protest he nudged the other man step by step to the bed, pressing him down to the mattress. “I love these shoulders,” Harry continued, once they were situated in the bed, moving to kiss at the curve where shoulder met neck. “And how you carried so much weight for so long, without giving up.”

“I love your chest,” Harry whispered against his skin, pausing to lightly nip and lick at the expanse of flesh. He lingered over the rapid thump to the side, and pressed his ear to the sound of the heavy beat. “And I love your heart, your good heart,” he said, kissing softly above where it pounded against his ribs, pretending not to notice as Severus trembled beneath him. 

Harry soldiered on, pausing at each blemish, scar, and mole, declaring that he loved it, and he loved Severus, and when he ran out of physical attributes, he started naming events. 

“I love that you saved me from that jinxed broom. I love that you kept my friends safe, even though we were impulsive Gryffindors.” This earned him a slight chuckle, a bit of reprieve from the heady emotions of the words before. “I love that you saved Katie after the cursed necklace, and Draco, and so many other people who will never understand how much you did from them.”

Before Harry could continue along that line, Severus pulled him up until they were face to face, and devoured him in a kiss. “I love that you do anything for the people you care about,” Severus said, surprising Harry with the fierceness in his tone. “Even when it’s foolhardy and idiotic.”

Severus wound his fingers in the black scribble of Harry’s hair, “I love your kindness,” he said softly, “and hate how you give it to people who have no right to it.”

Severus rolled them both to the side, so he was hovering over Harry’s face now, and used the fingers of the hand twisted in Harry’s hair to part the fringe over his forehead. He ran the lightest stroke of a fingertip over the lightning bolt scar that marred his brow. “I love how you never run away from a fight, even when you should.” He ran his lips across the lines of the scar and Harry closed his eyes against the feeling. “I hate how willing you were to sacrifice yourself.”

“I hate that you’re so good,” Severus continued, furiously enveloping Harry’s mouth in another kiss, suddenly seized with a passion Harry knew wasn’t really hatred at all. “I hate that you won’t stop until you’ve broken through every defense.” Hands clung to Harry’s arms with a bruising force, as Severus kiss turned almost feral. 

“I hate that I’m never going to be able to let you go, and I hate that I don’t want to,” he went on, nipping at Harry’s lips, teeth gnashing together and noses bumping. Harry met him mark for mark, bite for bite, until it was impossible to say whether this was a kiss or a battle, or who was winning if it was. 

“I hate--I hate--” Severus kept muttering between pants of breath, hands roaming over Harry, clinging to him so tightly he could barely breathe. Until finally, finally, Severus seemed to find the words he was looking for. “I hate that I survived,” he said with a broken finality. “I hate that I’ve never been without a life debt to someone.” Severus presses his face into the crook of Harry’s neck, and Harry couldn’t be sure that the dampness that dripped against him there was from sweat. “And if you save me the way you want to, I’ll have another life debt to bear.” 

Harry gingerly separated them, keeping his hands gently moving over his lover’s skin, trying to soothe him. 

“You don’t owe me anything,” Harry said firmly. “I’ve told you already, you can’t waste love. It’s freely given.” He pushed the hanging strands of hair back from his lover’s face and tucked it behind his ear, ignoring the dampness of his cheeks. “There are no debts between us anymore, Severus,” Harry said. “It’s over now, you’re free. We survived.”

Severus stared at him, unblinking and exhausted. “A life with no debt? So what is there, then?

“Just life,” Harry said softly. “Just us.”

Harry would remember the look Severus gave him at that moment for the rest of their lives. He had never seen the man so open, so vulnerable, and so filled with intensity.

“I love you,” Severus said, slowly, as if he were just discovering it.

Harry kissed him, slowly and softly, as if for the very first time. “I love you too.”

They followed the map they’d learned of each other’s bodies so many times in the dark, now, blissfully, in the light. Through lips and tongues, kisses and brushing fingertips, they explored every curve and edge of the other, the soft press of flesh and the hard line of bone, eliciting moans and more declarations of love and want and need. Building their pleasure together, higher and higher still, until they could hold no more, spilling over and onto one another. 

As their breathing slowly began to even out and their heart rates returned to normal, they settled against each other on the bed, hair tousled and stuck to their forehead or hanging limp over their face, their fingers still entwined.

“So why ‘Russ’?” Harry asked, breaking the comfortable silence between them, the thought suddenly coming into his head. “I mean, short for Severus, I know, but did you ever actually go by that?”

“It was a muggle nickname when I was a boy,” Severus replied, eyes closed and voice still rough. “I go by it now occasionally. That and my mother’s maiden name. Difficult to do much business under the name Severus Snape at the moment.” There was no bitterness in his tone; perhaps he was still a bit hazy from pleasure.

“Russ Prince,” Harry said thoughtfully, then paused. “Prince,” he repeated with a smile, which turned into a chuckle until he was fully laughing, hard and delighted.

“What’s so funny?” Severus asked, opening his eyes with a clear expression of irritation, but not moving away from Harry an inch.

Harry let the laughter evaporate, but a smile remained on his flushed face. “You were right,” he said in a teasing tone. “I had to kiss a lot of frogs before I found my _Prince_,” he emphasized the last word with a teasing smile.

Severus let out a groan, but pulled him closer, burying his face into the inky mess of Harry’s hair and breathing in heavily. “Is this the caliber of humour I’ve signed up for?” he asked at last, reaching up to give his wild hair a gentle tug in admonishment. Harry just continued grinning.

“I’m hilarious,” Harry said, with smug authority. “I make you laugh.”

“You do,” Severus said quietly, his lips twitching at the edges until finally succumbing into what could technically pass for a proper smile.

“Huh,” Harry said in bemusement, his own smile fading into thoughtfulness. “I’ve never really seen you smile before.”

Severus turned his face towards the pillow in an attempt to conceal it. “Don’t hide from me, love,” Harry said, gently chastising. He gently took hold of his chin and turned his face, pulling them closer together until their foreheads were touching. “That’s a good boy,” he murmured, pleased by how easily Severus allowed the direction, and delighting in the light and lovely flush that spread across his cheeks at the words.

And as he captured his lover’s smiling lips in his own, rays of late afternoon sun pouring through every window and bathing them both in the warm glow of light, they settled into their own glow of joy. As they continued to move together, Harry took in the streaming light around him, the warmth of the body against his, the promise of their lives together, and realized nothing had ever seemed so bright.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Blind Sensations](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20695079) by [MadFantasy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadFantasy/pseuds/MadFantasy)


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